“Goodbye, Art. Oh! Wait. There was one last thing…”
“Hmm?” Artemis said absently, her mind already twenty miles away in Surrey.
“You told me what would happen if you left the Duke of Warwick.” Twining her fingers together, Percy studied them for a moment before she slowly lifted her gaze. “But what about if you stay?”
“Stay,” Artemis repeated.
“Indeed. After all, you are engaged.”
“I won’t be in seven days.”
“But what if you discover that you actually like the duke?”
“Impossible,” she said without hesitation.
“Nothing is impossible.”
“That is.”
“Is he so horrible, then?” A line of concern marred Percy’s dark brow. “Are you afraid that he’ll harm you? Because if that is the case, I don’t know if you should be going there at all. Let me speak to Lucas when he returns, and–”
“Warwick would never harm me,” Artemis interrupted. To her own incredulity, she realized she’d spoken the truth. Whatever his flaws, Warwick really wouldn’t hurt her. Intentionally or otherwise.
The tension bracketing the edges of Percy’s mouth immediately eased. “Good. Because any man capable of hurting a woman in his care does not deserve to have her.”
For the past three years, Artemis had made it a point to avoid physical contact. It was a self-defense mechanism as much as it was a way to shield her heart. In her line of business, she couldn’t afford to get close to anyone. But when she saw the flash of pain in Percy’s eyes, she couldn’t help but reach out and grasp her friend’s hand.
“The Duke of Warwick is nothing like the Duke of Glastonbury,” she said, referring to Percy’s estranged husband. The monster who had put that pain in her eyes…and bruises on her body. “You needn’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
Percy gave the tiniest of sniffles, then bravely squared her shoulders. “I am glad to hear it. From what I’ve heard of Warwick, he is a good man. And a determined one as well, it seems. To have never given up after all this time…you must have made quite the impression on him when you were first engaged.”
“That’s just it,” Artemis said with a bewildered shake of her head. “I didn’t. Truth be told, I believe Warwick agreed to the betrothal contract because he found me boring. He all but admitted as much when we were courting. The only reason he has pursued me is because he claims he does not break his promises. I am an obligation. Nothing more.”
“But surely there must be something there,” Percy insisted. “Why else would he have struck such an unusual deal? Please do not take this the wrong way, but if the duke genuinely wanted a boring, proper duchess, he would have given you up for a lost cause the second you threw a knife at his head.”
“I should have hit his head and then I wouldn’t be in this mess,” Artemis muttered sourly.
“I, for one, believe he likes you.” Percy studied her closely. “I also believe you like him as well.”
Artemis snatched her hand away. “I do not!”
“You kissed him.”
“He kissed me.” Her mouth flattened. “And I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“But you did, and as a woman who has fallen in love and can personally attest to how wonderful it is, I only want the same for you.” Percy smiled gently. “You needn’t be hard all the time, Art. I know your armor has protected you, but it’s also prevented people from getting close.”
Artemis blinked. “I know. That’s why I wear it.”
“I just hope that for the next seven days you strive to have an open mind…and an open heart. You never know, Warwick might surprise you.”
After a final, troubled glance, Artemis walked out the door and climbed into the hackney. As the driver flicked his whip and the horse broke into a trot, there was a tiny part of her that couldn’t help but wonder…what if Percy was right?
Chapter Nine
The journey to Warwick Park was tedious and uneventful. With a stop halfway to exchange horses, the hackney trotted up the tree-lined drive just as the sun was beginning to set and a blanket of pink and red was being unfurled across the sky.
Without the smokestacks of London the air was noticeably different, almost crisper somehow, and when she emerged from the carriage Artemis found herself overwhelmed by the sheer amount of green everywhere.
It was in the shrubbery surrounding the massive stone manor that loomed above her like some sort of clever cage wrapped in marble pillars and iron terraces. It was in the rolling fields off to the right, and the hundreds of acres of forest that sprawled out to the left. It was in the rose gardens, and the apple orchards, and the ivy climbing the side of the chimney. Green was everywhere, and Artemis didn’t realize how keenly she’d missed the simple beauty of the countryside until she found herself surrounded by it.
There were no trees to be found in Seven Dials. No flowers or grass. Nothing innocent could thrive in such depravity, and if it dared to grow it was either trampled or ripped out. In the garden of cracked cobblestones and filthy alleys there was no room for green, and Artemis had lived for so long in the dark that she’d forgotten what the light looked like. What it smelled like. What it felt like, to gaze out at the world and not see all the ugliness contained within it.
Artemis frowned. She hadn’t come to admire Warwick Park. She’d come to endure it. And she wasn’t about to allow herself to be lured in by the sight of a few sheep grazing in a meadow.
Clinging tightly to her valise, she lifted her chin and marched towards the house, gravel crunching beneath her boots as she made her way around a fountain shooting water out of a fat cherub’s mouth and up a massive set of stairs guarded on either side by lions carved from granite.
She reached the top just as the front door swung inward. Blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, she looked up, expecting to see a footman or maybe even the butler. Instead Warwick himself, appearing every inch the duke in an emerald green jacket, satin waistcoat, and snowy white cravat complete with gold pin, stood waiting for her, his countenance unreadable as he held out his arm to take her valise.
“You’re late,” he remarked.
“I’m starving,” she retorted, brushing past him into the main foyer.
As outrageously resplendent on the inside as it was on the outside, the manor boasted vaulted ceilings painted a pale gold, gleaming marble tile in varying shades of ivory, and blue silk wall hangings. It was a formal, masculine space that would have greatly benefited from a woman’s touch.
But that woman was not going to be Artemis.
Breezing past a maid who stopped in her tracks and openly gaped at the sight of the Duke of Warwick’s long-lost fiancée in breeches and a loosely tucked linen shirt, Artemis made her way straight to the kitchens. Behind her she heard a loud sigh, an indecipherable mutter, and then the sound of Warwick’s Hessians stomping on the tile as he followed after her.
“Dinner was served an hour ago,” he said, dropping her valet on the floor and leaning his rangy frame against the side of the door as she proceeded to explore the cupboards.
The kitchen was meticulously kept, with nary a spoon out of place. Two scullery maids were washing dishes in the corner, their sleeves rolled all the way up past their elbows as they dipped their arms into buckets of soapy, scalding hot water, but as soon as they saw Artemis and the duke they abandoned their task and hurried out.
“And you didn’t think to save me a plate? Hardly indicative of a warm welcome.” Spying a loaf of bread wrapped in a towel, she ripped off a chunk and bit into it, then hopped straight up onto a work table that was still slightly damp from being wiped clean. Her legs swinging, she smirked at Warwick’s frown and took another big bite of bread.
While her manners had slipped considerably during her time in the rookeries (thieves weren’t exactly required to curtsy), Artemis still had the ability to conduct herself with the perfect behavior expected of a well-bred lady…if she so desired. But she
wasn’t about to use the next seven days to impress the duke. Rather, she wanted to show him just how wrong they were for each other, and what a terrible duchess she would make. If his expression of mild disgust was any indication, her plan was already working.
“There is a covered platter waiting for you in the dining room,” he said, his top lip curling. “But by all means, carry on with what you’re eating. Should I see if we’ve a tankard of mead lying about?”
Artemis brightened. “Could you?”
Warwick ran a hand across his mouth. “Is this why you left the ton? So that you could sit on tables and eat with your hands?”
“It was one of the reasons.” Setting the bread aside, she dusted crumbs off her lap and arched a brow. “You wouldn’t understand the rest.”
“Try me,” he invited, stepping into the kitchen. As the sun continued to sink lower in the sky, shadows began to creep across the walls. The hearth, banked to a low fire, was the only source of light in the room. Its quiet glow illuminated the side of Warwick’s face, playing across the hard lines and angles that comprised his countenance.
He was, Artemis noted with a sense of protective detachment, strikingly handsome. When they first met he’d been fine to look upon, of course, but the past three years had served to chisel away any remaining semblance of boyhood, resulting in a man that was all rawboned muscle and prominent cheekbones and piercing gray eyes.
Given his physical attributes, and his title, and his wealth, he could have had any woman he desired from here to America.
Why, then, go through this charade of pretending he wanted her?
Was it as simple as his stubborn pride refusing to give up what he saw as his?
Or was it something more, as Percy had suggested?
The former, Artemis told herself. Most definitely the former.
To Warwick, she was no different than a horse that had run away. A horse that he wanted to catch, and tame, and throw in a stall to live out its life in confined misery. Except she wasn’t going to accept a bridle, and she’d kick the first person who tried to drag her into a barn.
“Has anyone ever told you what to wear?” she asked, canting her head to the side. “Or at what volume you may speak? Who you may speak to? Where you may go? When you must be back?”
“I understand that society tends to place more restrictions on women–” he began.
Artemis cut him off with a laugh. “They aren’t restrictions, they’re rules. Unwritten rules that dictate every single second of every single day. And if you don’t follow each one to the letter, if you don’t adhere to every protocol set forth, then you’re shamed and ostracized and ridiculed. Tell me, Warwick. Have you ever needed to be granted permission before you could leave a room?”
“No,” he admitted stiffly. “But–”
“Have you ever had your ribs so tightly compressed by a corset that the marks do not leave your skin for days afterwards?”
“I wasn’t aware that–”
“Have you ever been told that your very existence, your reason for being, is to bear a child, and keep a household, and nothing more?”
“Artemis.” His Adam’s apple jerked as he swallowed. “I never–”
“People have asked me that question before, you know. Why I left the ton.” She slid off the table and landed lightly on her feet. “But the better question, I think, is why would I have ever wanted to stay?”
Artemis walked past him, and Warwick let her go. He was too stricken to stop her. Too stunned to put up even a token sliver of resistance.
Because she was right.
About everything.
And he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it until now.
As he made his way to his study, filled a crystal snifter with brandy, and collapsed into a wide leather chair, he couldn’t help but replay her last words through his head over and over again.
“But the better question, I think, is why would I have ever wanted to stay?”
Why would she have wanted to stay?
He certainly hadn’t given her a reason.
Or even a choice.
Arrogant and domineering, he’d all but decreed they would marry.
Not asked.
Not proposed.
Demanded.
As if it were his right.
He’d made no effort to get to know her. No real effort, anyway. Nothing beyond a carriage ride along the Serpentine that they’d spent staring in opposite directions, and a few disastrous afternoon teas that had ended in curt words and frosty glares.
Yet despite her clear unwillingness to marry him–or rather, because of it–he’d gone on to request her father’s permission to enter into a betrothal agreement.
Her father’s permission.
Not hers.
And no one had found that unusual in the slightest.
Except for Artemis.
“But the better question, I think, is why would I have ever wanted to stay?”
Granted, most women would have fallen over themselves at the opportunity to become a duchess, and damn if they actually enjoyed the company of the man they were pledging themselves to for the rest of their lives.
But then Artemis wasn’t most women.
She was beautifully unique and he, in all his bumbling oafishness, had attempted to stifle that rare quality with the finality of a candle being extinguished. He’d tried to put out her light…and she’d found a way to burn even brighter in spite of it.
Was it any wonder, then, that she despised him? Were their positions reversed, he would have been the one throwing a knife at her head.
Taking a liberal sip of brandy, Warwick stood up as the amber liquid trickled down his throat and prowled to the window. Darkness had fully descended, cloaking the estate in a heavy layer of black that paired well with the bitter regret sitting on his shoulders.
Had he but taken his time with Artemis in the beginning, she’d have never felt so desperate that her only recourse was to flee. His blatant disregard for what she wanted could have killed her. It was a testament to her resilience, not his, that she’d managed to not only survive in Seven Dials, but by all measures had thrived.
Why would she ever want to return to a world that had ignored her? That had treated her as a possession instead of a person? That had never taken her wants or needs into consideration?
The obvious answer was that she wouldn’t.
Which meant he had exactly seven days to convince her to stay…or be forced to watch as she walked away once and for all.
Chapter Ten
Artemis woke to a torrent of rain lashing at the windows and thunder booming in the distance. For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to lay in bed with her eyes closed and listen to the sounds of the storm. Then she rose, washed her face with cold water which helped to alleviate the bluish shadows beneath her eyes courtesy of a restless night’s sleep, scrubbed her teeth with tooth powder (a not-very-pleasant combination of soda ash, ground chalk, and crushed charcoal), and brushed out her hair before twisting it into an elaborate knot that sat heavily on the nape of her neck.
For clothes she chose a pair of beige trousers tapered at the ankle, a plain cotton shirt, and one of her specially designed waistcoats that clung to her slender torso more like a loosely fitted corset than any article of clothing designed for a man.
With no thought to going outside in such abysmal weather, she didn’t bother with shoes, and padded out of her bedchamber and down the stairs to the main floor on silent stockinged feet. She passed two house maids, who quickly averted their gazes, a footman, and finally the butler, a stodgy, middle-aged man with long white sideburns and an unmistakable glint of reproach in his brown eyes.
“Lady Amelia, I presume,” he said, lowering his upper body in a stiff bow. “I was told you would be joining us for the week. I am Mr. Grieves, and I have proudly served here at Warwick Park for the past two decades. Should you need anything, I shall do my best to oblige you.”
Havin
g dealt with the disapproval of her various nannies and governesses since she was in pinafores, Artemis knew exactly how to handle the butler. The key, she’d learned, was to confound them with kindness.
“Excellent,” she said brightly. “You can begin by calling me Artemis. Or Art, if you’d like. That is what all of my closest acquaintances call me, and I can already tell that we are going to be great friends.”
Mr. Grieves’s cheeks flushed a mottled red. “I would never presume–”
“Best do as the lady says,” Warwick drawled as he rounded the corner. “Less you find yourself at the wrong end of a very pointy stick.”
Artemis’s gaze flew to the duke’s and held there, her blue eyes warring with his gray in silent challenge even as the corners of her mouth threatened to twitch.
“You told me to leave my knives in London,” she said.
“Did you listen?” he asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Knives?” the butler sputtered. “What knives?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, Grieves. Just don’t make my betrothed angry.” With a wink at the flustered servant, Warwick walked across the foyer and extended his arm to Artemis. “Breakfast is waiting in the front parlor. Ordinarily it is served in the solarium but given the rain, I thought conversation would be easier if we weren’t surrounded by glass.”
Reluctantly, she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her to their destination: a room decorated in calming shades of blue with a crackling fire and a rectangular wooden table already set for two complete with a lace cloth overlay and gold cutlery.
It was…cozy, Artemis had to admit as Warwick pulled back her chair and she slid into it. A footman served their breakfast and then quit the room, discreetly closing the door in his wake.
Eyeing her plate of poached eggs, roasted potatoes sprinkled with fresh parsley, and round slices of bacon, Artemis resisted–barely–the urge to lick her lips. As soon as her seven-day tenure was complete and she had that thousand-pound note in her pocket, the first thing she was going to do was hire a professional cook. No more stew from the tavern, or stale bread from the man who supposedly called himself a baker.
Seducing the Siren of Seven Dials (Secret Wallflower Society Book 4) Page 6
