A Grave Inheritance (28 page)

“So good to see you, my lady.” He bowed gracefully, and taking Cate’s hand, brushed a kiss on the back of her cream satin glove.

“And you, Your Grace,” Cate said, her eyes twinkling with the usual merriment. “Please let me introduce my friends.” She gestured to us in turn. “This is Lucy Goodwin and Miss Selah Kilbrid.”

One look from the duke, and I knew the reckoning had begun. The intensity of his pale blue stare seemed to hold supernatural powers, searching my soul while offering nothing in return. My pulse quickened, and cold sweat coated my palms as I waited for him to speak. Would it be kindness or arrogance from the man destined to be my father-in-law? And did I have the fortitude to bite my tongue if he said something particularly nasty? After Cate’s warning, it seemed I had better keep my temper in check or risk exposing the dragon, and in turn, making matters worse for Henry.

I squared my shoulders, ready for just about anything when the duke surprised me by shifting his attention to Lucy. “I’ve heard much praise of you, Lucy Goodwin, and your daughter Nora.” He glanced toward the French doors. “Is she not joining us this evening? I hope she hasn’t fallen ill. Our London vapors can be hard on those accustomed to fresher air.”

Lucy gave him a pleasant smile. “I thank you, Richard Fitzalan, but Nora has no complaints to her health. She was kept away tonight due to a prior engagement with Margaret Fox. Perhaps you are familiar with the name and its significance to the Quakers?”

Jealousy pinched my heart and my mouth tightened to a straight line. Over the past three days, I had become all too familiar with Margaret’s name since Lucy spoke of little else. Not that I had met the lady, or even seen Nora again following our conversation on the stairs. Anxious to confront her about the lie, I was greatly disappointed when a note arrived yesterday, requesting permission for Nora to stay the night at the Fox home so the ladies could continue undisturbed in their labor for the poor. Or some such rubbish.

“Ah, yes,” the duke replied. “Mr. Roth has taken an interest in the Quakers, and has seen to educating me on your history and simple ways. He is joining us for supper, though I dare say he will be most aggrieved by Nora’s absence.”

Just the mention of that man’s name soured my temper.
Supper, indeed!
I could think of nothing more gratifying than sticking a salad fork in his—

“And you, Miss Kilbrid,” the duke said, jolting me from my reverie. “Our acquaintance is long overdue. My son seemed intent on keeping us apart for fear that I could not behave properly. I hope you find him mistaken.” His expression and manner showed every sign of pleasantness, but those eyes—they seemed capable of turning me inside out.

By sheer self-will, I managed not to look away. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m sure I shall have no reason to complain.”

His eyes creased with amusement and a soft rumble sounded in his chest. “It is a pity that Henry is not here tonight, for I believe we are destined to be great friends.”

The duke remained the picture of congeniality throughout supper, and with each course, I grew more relaxed in his company. Only the presence of Mr. Roth kept me from proclaiming it a perfect success. As he sat to my left on the opposite side of the table, I could almost imagine him gone while the duke kept up a series of questions regarding the Colonies. For all his bluster the other day, James appeared rather subdued this evening. The condescending smirk he saved especially for me had turned into a sullen frown upon learning of Nora’s absence. Over the duration of the meal, his mood darkened further, no doubt, due to the duke’s obvious favor for me. What little James contributed to the conversation in the beginning, tapered to a brooding silence by the time dessert arrived.

When the forks came to a final rest, the duke drained the last of his wine and stood. “Why don’t we continue in the drawing room? Mr. Roth, please show the women through.”

James gave a sharp bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

We filed from the dining room, James in front, followed by Lucy and Cate. The duke and I went last, our pace hindered by his limp. “Are you unwell, Your Grace?” I asked, noticing that he walked markedly slower than when we first went into the dining room.

The duke came to a stop and placed a restraining hand on my arm. “Well enough,” he said, watching as the ladies disappeared around a corner. Then opening a door, he gestured for me to follow. “This way, Miss Kilbrid, if you please. I wish a private word before we join the others.” Though pleasant, his tone brokered no refusal.

I went without protest, down another corridor and into a room that looked to be the duke’s private study. A newly-set fire burned in the hearth, and a crystal wine decanter and pair of glasses rested on the desk as though in expectation of our arrival.

The duke pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. “Thank you for joining me,” he said, taking the seat on the opposite side of the desk. His eyes went to the crystal decanter. “Would you care for wine?”

“No, thank you, Your Grace.” The two glasses at supper already exceeded my usual limit, and under the present circumstances, I felt a strong need to keep my wits about me.

I watched in silence while he poured one for himself. Returning the decanter to the desk, he then reached for the glass, only to stop in mid-motion. Pain shadowed his face as he pulled his hand back and pressed it directly over his heart.

“Are you feeling unwell, Your Grace,” I asked for a second time. “Shall I fetch a servant?”

He gave a faint smile and shook his head. “No need. A bout of indigestion is all. The pain will soon pass.”

I didn’t push further, though my fingers itched for contact, so I could take a peek at his heart.

The pain must have lessened, for the duke soon dropped his hand to the desk, this time ignoring the wine. “As you can imagine, Miss Kilbrid, I have heard all manner of accounts regarding your character. My son and Lady Dinley believe you of the highest caliber, while others...” He paused for a moment, and tapped a finger against the desk in thought. “Let’s just say that some others do not hold to the same high opinion.”

I gave him a steady look, managing to confine the inevitable anger to the tight line of my shoulders. “Your Grace gives shelter to my greatest critic.”

“True enough,” the duke replied impassively. “Mr. Roth is not an admirer.”

“I hope you don’t give credence to his words. The man is incapable of uttering an ounce of truth whenever my name is concerned.”

The duke’s pale blue eyes locked on mine, and I felt again the odd sensation that he could see me from the inside. “I assume you are referring to his favorite words of choice—
upstart, commoner, Catholic
and
rebel.
”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, those would be them.”

The duke reached for the wine glass and took a small drink. “It may surprise you,” he said, “that Mr. Roth’s strong opinions are not entirely unjustified.”

Dismay throttled my fledgling hope. All through supper I had thought the duke an ally, only to be broadsided by this unexpected support for my most ardent opponent. His words left me feeling incredulous, betrayed even. “So, you share his opinion then?” I asked, my voice rising in anger. “The man has despised me from the start and wishes nothing but ill to come my way.”

And it seemed he was succeeding.

The duke studied my face. “Forgive me, Miss Kilbrid, I should have said that his strong opinions are justified in general. But that is his story to share, not mine. As for my opinions, I have yet to decide if you are a good match for my son and heir.”

I blinked several times, not quite sure what to make of his declaration. Undecided wasn’t entirely bad, though to be sure, his choice of words left a bad taste in my mouth. Who was he to say whether or not I was good enough for anyone? Lifting my chin, I smoothed my expression to match his own. “What are your objections? That I am Irish Catholic? Or that I do not carry the distinguished pedigree of Princess Amelia.”

His face remained impassive. “Direct and confident,” he said. “I now see some of the fire my son so admires. Well, let me be frank in return. I am no lover of the papacy, but that is for political rather than religious reasons. As for your Irish roots, my maternal grandmother could claim the same.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “Henry never mentioned you had Irish descent.”

“Most likely because he doesn’t know. Her family immigrated to England three generations before my Grandfather Fitzalan claimed her for his wife. Maybe you are familiar with the surname O’Lughnane?”

I shook my head.

“Shortly after arriving in this country, her grandsire changed the family’s name to Lundlam to avoid suspicion with the local magistrates.” He gave me a wry look. “You may understand my grandfather’s desire to keep his wife’s genealogy a secret as being Irish is not politically expedient in England.”

“So Mr. Roth frequently reminds me,” I said darkly.

“Like you, Miss Kilbrid, my grandmother may not have lived in Ireland, but she considered herself Irish through and through. As a lad, I spent countless evenings listening to tales of her native land—tales of magic and ancient races.” The memories must have touched him, for his mouth softened into something of a smile. “You must be familiar with some of the stories yourself.”

“A few,” I admitted.

Quite without warning, his stare grew more intense. “Ah, yes. Wonderful tales, but we both live in the real world and know that such nonsense does not exist.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice under his scrutiny.

After a moment, his gaze dropped and he pressed a hand to his chest again. Wincing with pain, his breath turned thinner.

“Your Grace,” I said, now genuinely concerned. “Please let me call a servant.” I started to push up from the chair when he waved me back down.

“No, no. I insist. It will pass.” Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he dragged it across his forehead. “You see, I am already much improved.”

I kept my eyes pinned to his face, not convinced for a second on his state of improvement. “Perhaps we should join the others in the drawing room.”

“In a moment.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Do you really want to know my opinion of Henry’s betrothal?”

It took some effort to keep a steady breath. “Yes, Your Grace. As his father, your opinion takes precedent over all others.” Except, of course, for Henry’s and mine.

The duke’s expression turned deadly serious, and I braced my nerves for what lay ahead. “It all depends, you see...” His voice broke off as he winced once more in pain.

“Depends on what, Your Grace,” I asked, preparing to reach right over the desk if need be. Obviously, this was not a simple case of indigestion, and Henry would never forgive me if his father died while in my care. From what I could tell, there was sufficient pain to mask a slow stream of power. Over a period of about ten minutes, most of the damage could be repaired...

The Duke lurched to his feet and stumbled around the desk. I shot up from the chair just as he reached the hearth and sank to the ground.

“Oh, dear Lord!” I cried, kneeling beside him. “Don’t you dare die!”

The duke’s head rolled to one side. His labored breath fell silent, and I feared had stopped altogether. A fire burst to life inside me. Placing my hands directly on his chest I released a rush of power straight into him, surrounding his heart in a frantic search for any signs of damage. In a flash, I glimpsed the thick muscle, beating with the strength and vitality of a healthy man.

A hand gripped my wrist. My eyes flew to the duke’s face, and I found him staring at me with the most satisfied smile.

“It depends, Miss Kilbrid,” he said softly. “On whether I want my son to marry a princess...or a goddess.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Nature of Love

I yanked my arm from the duke’s grip with a violence that sent me toppling backwards onto the floor. The sudden impact jarred my buttocks and pushed the air from my lungs in a pronounced oomph. Anger and fear collided like charging horses inside me, wrenching my stomach and nearly spilling its contents on the duke’s rug.

Merciful saints! What have I done?

The duke stood and brushed the wrinkles from his velvet coat and breeches. Wiping his face once more with the handkerchief, he then reached a hand to help me from the floor.

I recoiled from the gesture as though he had offered me a snake.

“Come now, Miss Kilbrid,” he said jovially. “I’m not going to hurt you. Be a good girl and let me help you up.”

A good girl!
His pompous words slammed into the top of my head. “You tricked me!” I sputtered. And like a simpleton, I had fallen for it.

His arm dropped to his side, and he leaned on his cane for support. “And what would you have done if I had just come right out and asked? Would you have admitted to your ancestry?”

I glared at him. “Over my dead body.”
Or yours.

“Well, there you have it. What my method lacked in propriety, it made up for in originality.”

“Trickery is hardly original,” I snapped. “Any devil worth his salt could have managed such a paltry charade.”

A deep chuckle vibrated in the duke’s chest. “Now, now, my dear. There’s no need for rudeness. I may be many things, but I am by no means a devil.”

His self-satisfied smile had grown in size, and if not for the nerveless tingle in my legs, I would have gladly stood to scratch it from his face. “How did you know?”

“You should pay closer attention, Miss Kilbrid, as I’ve already explained my Irish roots.”

Hope sparked to life, and my excitement tumbled out in a rush of words. “Was your grandmother goddess born?”

“Oh, no, not goddess born, I assure you. But she had no shortage of stories about the clans that claim ancestry from Brigid.”

The spark died even quicker than it had gained life. “You said you didn’t believe those stories anymore.”

“Yes, well, I lied.”

A curt breath cut through my nose. “Obviously—”

“Not that you didn’t leave enough clues to lead a blind man,” the duke interrupted. “When I learned of your unique surname and inordinate ability to heal, I only had to put two and two together and then come up with a method to test my theory. Considering what I had planned for this evening, you may better understand why I needed to send Henry away.” The duke’s expression turned contemplative. “Tell me, Miss Kilbrid, does my son know what you are?”