The Duke

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “‘Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,’” she finished breathlessly, the paintbrush trembling in her hand. “‘But bears it out even to the edge of doom.’”

  Their eyes locked and held as Cole’s mind churned with the same frenzy his stallion’s hooves had only minutes prior. Was that what he was doing? Bearing out his obsessive need for Ginny, even to the edge of his own doom? What would the bard have to say about his behavior? he wondered. Would he have censured Cole for pining after Ginny all this time? Or for forgetting to do so when thusly engaged with the Lady Anstruther?

  “I stand both corrected and astonished,” she admitted, seemingly impervious to his thoughts. “I, too, love Shakespeare. Though I enjoy his words more when performed than the reading of them. To be honest, Isobel is the great reader in our family, as I tend to appreciate more visual modalities.” She gestured to her painting.

  “I can’t find fault in that,” he murmured, unable to tear his eyes from the vision she made. A violet blooming in the shade of their tree. “There is much to appreciate.”

  A pretty pink blush stained her high cheekbones, and she lowered bashful lashes. “You’ve been riding today.” She swept some horsehair from his jacket, and Cole could almost hear the scandalized gasps of the noble matrons passing in their expensive carriages. He loved that she seemed to care even less than he did. “It is my most fervent regret that I never had the chance to learn the equestrian arts.”

  His first instinct was to offer to teach her, and then he realized what the sight of her on horseback would do to him. She was a lithe woman, and proximity to her rolling hips and her bottom bouncing in a saddle might just be the death of him.

  Shifting away from her, he gestured to the nude Achilles statue, the hero’s only adornment, other than a sword and shield, an intimately placed fig leaf. “You abandoned your garden today in search of more … stimulating inspiration for your art?”

  An impish dimple appeared in her cheek. “I’ve always been fond of this statue,” she admitted. “On a day like this, I like the play of the sunlight on the darker bronze of his musculature.”

  Cole swallowed around a dry tongue as he watched her gaze trace the exposed lines of Achilles’ form with naked admiration.

  “More of your passion for Greek mythology?”

  She shook her head, surprising him yet again with her audacity, even as her lashes swept down. “No, actually, he … reminds me of someone.”

  “The Duke of Wellington, I presume? The thing was cast in his honor though, obviously, not in his image.”

  “No.” She glanced back up at the imposing statue, and Cole had the absurd notion that she was studiously avoiding his gaze. “Someone else.”

  Cole glared at the statue with a renewed distaste for it. It reminded her of someone … Someone she’d apparently experienced in flagrante delicto.

  Were he a lesser man he’d be jealous.

  But he wasn’t.

  Not in the least.

  Though he had to admit it a balm to his ego that his physique could rival that of Achilles, at least, this particular rendering of him. The one she so admired. He couldn’t help but wonder what her aesthetic eye would capture if she were to gaze upon him so revealed. Would she see his strength and sinew, or only his impediment?

  “I like his stance most of all,” she said, studying it as though she’d done so a thousand times before. “It’s as though the sculptor captured the heartbeat before a great triumph. His shield is brandished in a way that leaves no question that he deflected the blow of his enemy. His sword is readying for a maneuver that he’s mastered. One can almost complete the moment in one’s mind in all its fierce victory, even though other variables are missing.” She finally turned to him, eyes shining with the fanatical enjoyment he’d often envied in the intellectual set.

  “It’s the mark of a great artist, don’t you think? To still convey what is not captured on the canvas, or … in the clay or stone, as the case may be. It’s a talent to which I aspire.”

  For a moment, Cole forgot where they were or what they were talking about. All he could do was gape at her, as though seeing her for the first time. He could stare into her eyes all day and never catalogue all the hues. The ring at the center of her irises was decidedly brown, and then bled with color to the verdant edge. From a distance, the sunlight turned them green, the moonlight burnished them a silvery-gray, and her tears made them murky as the Thames in a storm.

  By what magic, he had no idea, but Lord, did he enjoy the spectacle.

  Grace, he realized, was something this woman had in spades.

  “And here I thought you merely painted the landscape of your garden,” he murmured, discomfited that his voice seemed to have lowered a few unnecessary octaves.

  Her brow puckered again, as it seemed to do when she was distressed. “If I’m honest, I’ve been unable to enjoy my garden since…”

  “Lady Broadmore?” he guessed.

  She nodded, again avoiding his gaze. “And also, I confess I’ve had the distinct feeling that I’m being spied upon when I’m out there.”

  A guilty flush stole from beneath his collar. He’d spent more time than usual at the window with the intent of watching her, but for no other reason than Morley had asked him to, of course.

  “Though, I suppose, venturing from the safety and anonymity of my gardens probably does me some good. I not only challenge myself artistically this way, but I endeavor into the unknown potential of the day.” She summoned a sunny smile for him, and again his heart sputtered. “For example, I might chance to meet a newly mended acquaintance, or notice an art gallery I hadn’t previously visited.”

  Or happen to be an easy target for an enterprising murderous rapist.

  Cole scowled, then opened his mouth to admonish her for her carelessness, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to cause the death of one more of her winsome smiles.

  Instead he said, “As a soldier I had little need or care for the arts. I’m curious, if I were to happen upon a gallery, which paintings are the ones most worth my time and admiration?”

  She gave her answer less consideration than he expected. “The paintings with the dustiest frames.”

  “Pardon?”

  Her smile disappeared regardless of his efforts, and Cole immediately missed it. “Often, when a gallery has a showing, there are those paintings that are advertised by some great master, the ones that draw the largest crowds. Then, the walls are frequently scattered with others of lesser acknowledgment.” She plucked at a loose thread in the violet lace overskirt, her gaze ever more distant. “Patrons often walk past those other paintings with a single-minded idea that the only worthy piece of art is the one coveted by others. But those paintings, the ones with the dusty frames … someone must appreciate them, mustn’t they? Someone should give a thought for them, for the visionary who created them. Else they are returned to the shadows. To a basement somewhere. Locked away. Quite forgotten.” The whites of her eyes turned pink as the lids washed with tears. “Sometimes I can’t bear the thought of it.”

  She sniffed, removing her gloves to catch the tears with her fingers before they fell. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I must still be overwrought. Surely you didn’t come here to watch me weep like a silly schoolgirl. Somehow, I can’t seem to help myself. It’s not at all like me. I’ve never—”

  Before he realized what he was doing, Cole caught her bare hand in his, and brought it to his lips. His eyes didn’t stray from her face as he kissed the moisture from her fingers, tasting the salt of her sorrow.

  Her breath quickened behind her stays, and her gaze darted about the crowded park as though only just realizing what an exhibition they made. “Please don’t be kind to me,” she begged in a husky whisper. “I’ll fall apart in front of everyone. I’ll humiliate us both.”

  Reluctantly, he released her hand, wishing more than anything that they were alone, that he could pull her against him. That he could shield her tender feelings
from all danger with his body, and hold her wounded heart encased in the empty cage of his own chest.

  Holy fucking Christ. This was dire. He needed to depart, but how could he leave her like this? He had stridden into her day, wishing to share in her sunshine, and somehow managed to rain all over it.

  God, he was a loathsome brute.

  He tried to think of something, anything, to bring her smile back. And realized that not only did he not know much about her, he knew precious little about women in general. Usually, he had to do little more than look at a woman and cock his head to bring her hither. And then she was all titters, flirts, and occasionally more. Imogen was a different sort of lady, to be sure, but a woman all the same. So … a compliment, perhaps, would do the trick. “Your dress is … it’s very bright.”

  She looked down at it with a rueful twist to her full lips.

  “I meant, in an appealing fashion,” he rushed. “It was how I recognized you in the crowd. Why is it that you always wear so much color, even during the afternoon, when every other lady is swathed in white or pastels?”

  She spread her silk skirts and fondled a layer of lace as she glanced out at the coiffed and coddled women twirling their parasols and pretending not to watch them with raptorlike interest.

  “It’s not that I don’t like pastels,” she mused, then paused and squinted as though looking for guidance from far away. “I think that people like you and I have a … unique understanding of just how dreary and sometimes … ghastly the world can be, do you agree?”

  He dipped his chin, feeling that he’d far missed his mark where cheering her was concerned.

  “After Edward died and I was in mourning, I went through a period of time where I looked at everything through a pall of gray. I trusted no one. I resented everyone. I was listless and irritable and expected the worst of any situation. It was a rather dreadful few months.”

  “I didn’t realize his loss was that much of a tragedy to you,” Cole admitted, remembering how cold he’d been to her at the funeral and castigating himself for it.

  “It wasn’t only that,” she confessed. “Before I married him, I lived a life full of such … well, of difficulty and disappointment. I hadn’t been privy to much in the way of kindness or beauty or…” She paused to give him a searching look. “Or pleasure.”

  Even the word on her lips sent a thrill of lust through him. Would that he could show her pleasure. That he could give it. Take it. God, what he could do to her. If only—

  If only his heart didn’t belong to another.

  “Anyway, the moment I came out of mourning for Edward, I burned all my black dresses, and ordered a new trousseau in all the brightest colors of the spectrum imaginable. I wear them at my leisure, to remind myself that for all the gray in the London sky, there’s always color to be found. A smile to give. A kindness to share. A sunny day to look forward to. Or at the very least … a bright dress to wear. You see, Cole, if I cannot find that color, if there is no bright spot, then I must become one.”

  “And so you have,” he murmured, distressed by the tenderness welling inside of him. “Like an oil painting in a gallery of watercolors.”

  “Exactly that.” A delighted smile spread slowly over her face, chasing away the sadness, eliciting something so achingly sweet within him, he had to turn away.

  “It’s not just the dresses, you know,” she continued earnestly. “It’s sort of an entire way of life I’ve found. The charity. My family. And art, of course. It all grants me something like happiness, I think.”

  He envied her in that moment, that she could create something so elusive. Something he’d convinced himself he couldn’t have unless he found what had vanished.

  Or whom.

  Suddenly he realized how foolish it was to pin one’s hopes for redemption on a memory. But … if he didn’t have that, have Ginny, then what was he left with? A great empty house and an emptier life.

  “I wonder what advice you would give to someone mired in that gray place. What if they’ve lost the ability to feel anything but enmity? To expect nothing but betrayal? To see nothing but shadows and darkness?” Even as he said this, he knew it to be an admission he’d given to no one else. Why should he confide in her like this? Why should he lay his troubled thoughts at her feet for her to tread upon when they were little better than strangers. Barely more civil than enemies. A few nights ago he’d been vowing her demise. Now he was seeking her advice?

  Perhaps he should have his head examined.

  “I believe you find your way out of the mire with small but consistent victories,” she mused, giving him a sad smile. “But you must look for the light, as it will not always find you. You must stop to marvel at commonplace miracles. You must find wonder in the mundane. To me it’s like weeding through a cacophony to find a melody, and then learning to hum along.”

  A brittle and bedeviled emotion coursed through him, and he had to gather his composure in order to meet her gentle gaze. She couldn’t possibly know, could she? The maelstrom of angst and rage he grappled with just to pry himself out of his restless bed. The despair that seemed heavier than any load that had previously tested the strength of his shoulders. The alarming and imaginary pain in his missing hand. The endless stretch of lonely days. He was a man who had everything. Money, power, influence, charm, and almost unparalleled physical prowess, despite his injury.

  And still he was filled with emptiness. Alone in a crowded room. A soldier without a war. A spy without a mark.

  Except here. Now. On this bench with this woman. The beast within him was still and perhaps for the first time since he’d returned from Constantinople he was … himself.

  Finally, he felt the sunlight break through the gray.

  Her searching look became a speaking one as her gaze seemed to delve into his, reaching through his opaque memories and smothered pain, into the depths of his very soul. She wove a spell that had him leaning toward her like a serpent mesmerized by an exotic charmer.

  “Happiness, it’s a foreign tune to me now,” he admitted. “A melody I no longer remember how to play.”

  “If you look for vagaries, enemies, and misery wherever you are, you’re certain to find them, aren’t you?” she murmured. “But what if you looked closer? Deeper? Might you not find something new?” Her lashes dipped and lifted to unfurl an ardent sentiment that bemused and entranced him. It was something like expectation, and something like anxiety.

  “Or…” Her voice wavered hesitantly. “Perhaps recognize something you’d considered lost?”

  He stared at her for a breathless moment, something stirring inside of his confounded memory. Something sweet and also crimson.

  “Your lemonade, my lady, Your Grace.” The moment was broken, the door of his memory slammed with a sense of abrupt permanence as Cheever handed him the cold beverage. “I was even able to find a vendor with a block of ice. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of the indulgence.”

  “Not at all, Cheever.” Imogen couldn’t have sounded more delighted as she took the glass, already glimmering with droplets of moisture, and held it aloft for a toast. “To small victories and brighter days.”

  Amused, Cole touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To reclaiming what we’ve lost.”

  Was he mistaken, or had she paled significantly at his words? He studied her over the rim of his glass as the sweet and tart refreshment mingled on his tongue. What did she know of loss? he wondered. It haunted his every step. He’d lost everyone he’d ever called family. He’d lost parts of himself he’d never again regain. Not only his hand, but his heart. Indeed, parts of his immortal soul. Chipped away by the things he’d done in the name of his queen and country, by the tortures inflicted by cruel enemies, and by the betrayal of those he trusted the most.

  Perhaps it was why he could admit to himself that he wanted her. That he admired her and, God forgive him, was even beginning to like her.

  But no matter how much goodness she demonstrated, he
couldn’t bring himself to trust her. Though her smile was open, her eyes held a mystery. A secret to rival that of the Mona Lisa, he suspected.

  Would that he knew what it was. Did it have something to do with Achilles? he wondered, turning to glare at the statue with renewed distaste. Not the myth, but the man who drew her to paint his effigy?

  The one who tormented her memory.

  Had he betrayed her? Or had she lost him in some other way? To death, to another, to whatever cruel vagary of fate sentiment had inflicted upon her.

  Was he the reason she was no longer a virgin?

  Sunlight fragmented as the glass in Imogen’s hand shattered, dousing her and him in glacial, sticky liquid a mere moment before a weight landed against his chest with a resounding thud.

  Cole caught it before it could fall to his lap, and held up a rock about half the size of his palm. Someone had thrown it, but at which one of them?

  “Sweet Christ,” he cursed. “Are you all right?”

  She sat blinking at the jagged remnants of her beverage in her hand for a few stunned moments, then looked down at her soiled gown, now glittering with shards of glass. “I—I think so.”

  Cheever, who’d leaped out of his chair, pointed down the footpath that led toward the west gate. “Look there,” he cried. “The blackguard is getting away!”

  A fleeing man in a drab felt derby hat and beige plaid jacket weaved through an array of carriages and astonished onlookers.

  Cole was on his feet, wishing they could surge as fast as his rage. “Get her home safe,” he commanded Cheever over his shoulder, already in pursuit. He’d not met many men with legs as long as his, and they ate up significant ground as he pounded after the assailant. He shoved aside useless gawkers, cursing them for doing nothing to help. What was wrong with the upper classes, not one of them lifting a finger to help protect one of their own?

  He leaped over a row of hedges, and even jumped into the door of an open landau carriage that idled in his way, hurtling to the other side.