Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea (20 page)

Now he wasn’t sure if she was acting or not. “All right. I’ll play this game if you insist,” he said evenly. “But I’m not certain I’ll recover. I sense a decline in my future.”

He had no earthly idea how those words would come back to haunt him in such a short period of time.

“I like you better when you are English. The French in you is
un peu
too inclined to spout nonsense.”

“That’s not how to say it,
cherie.
” He whispered something wicked and incomprehensible in her ear while he did something very explicit with his hands.

She gasped.

But tonight’s game would soon be over and they both knew it.

Chapter 13

S
he pursed her lips. Lord, how was she to withstand him?

She was
not
falling in love with him. She was merely in love with the idea of him . . . of an honest to goodness gentle man. A sheep in wolf’s clothing.

Oh, she was a complete idiot and knew it. But there was nothing she could do to stop her emotions. Shouldn’t a woman whose husband had tried to kill her nearly a month ago take a little more care to guard her heart?

But no. She never had, had she? It wasn’t in her nature, or in the nature of her father. Love was everything. Love was grand. And she would rather love and then leave than leave without having loved.

Not that she would ever admit it. Mary had been wrong. It was a woman who would chew off her own hand rather than tell a man she loved him without knowing he loved her, too. And there was not a chance of her ever hearing those words from Alexander Barclay, the ninth Duke of Kress, the man who had locked away his heart more thoroughly than the Bank of England guarded the country’s wealth.

But his pride was nothing to hers. When she left, she would leave with her head high, and her pride intact. Yes, it would be the only thing keeping her warm this winter. And she would refuse to spend a single second wondering about his future life with a well-chosen young wife.

There was only one thing that was certain. If she made the mistake of making love to him, she would lose herself in the process. Her heart might very well be already lost, yes, but not yet her soul. She must extricate herself before it was too late. He had been strong enough to stop her earlier, now she must be strong enough for herself.

“I’m sorry, Alexander,” she whispered. “I just can’t do this to you.”
To me
, she wanted to shout.

He searched her face and tucked her into his arms. “Of course. But, I insist you stay here just a bit longer, won’t you? You look so very tired.”

S
he usually slept unevenly and woke at dawn’s first light. It was a habit born of years working with her father and then of managing her own household. Papa had taught her the importance of keeping similar hours to the mine workers and the servants. And so she was surprised to wake with sunlight streaming through the gap of the heavy curtains.

Good Lord. She was still in the Duke of Kress’s bed. She turned her head quickly only to find he was gone; the indentation of his head imprinted on the long bolster they had shared was the only indication that he had been there. Her eyes noticed a teacup resting on the walnut table next to his bed. She dragged herself to his side and noticed a note.

The door is locked. The tea is for you.

See you at supper.

A.

That was it . . . The most extraordinary night of her life, and all that remained was an impersonal note of three sentences left on a bedside table. It might as well have said, “Wonderful to see you. Do take care. So busy, must go.”

She sank back into the bed and pulled the sheet over her head. Oh, why was she surprised? Really, what did she expect? Flowers, a solution to her impossible situation, and a grand proposal?

Why, she had practically forced herself on him. Had he not made it perfectly clear that he did not believe in love? Had he not told her the very first day they had met that he was under orders by His Majesty to marry a rich, titled heiress? And had she not told him a thousand times that she loathed compliments and that she was leaving? And there was no need to add that she was married and dead.

She had no one to blame but herself. She must lock away her sentiments in the coffer of her soul and throw away the key. It was the only answer.

She pushed down the sheet, struggled into an upright position and drank the stone-cold tea in one long gulp. Then she fell out of the bed and recovered all her articles of clothing strewn about the room, save one. She searched high and low before she finally spied her corset hanging from a wall sconce.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

Fully dressed in evening satin, she tried to arrange her hair in a simple chignon with little success. Her hands were trembling as she remembered what she had done with the duke this past evening.

She listened at the door before gaining the nerve to turn the key in the lock and peek into the hallway. She silently rushed to her apartment, three corridors east of his. She felt dizzy and realized she had forgotten to breathe while she dashed.

Never so grateful that there was no maid assigned to her, Roxanne calmed herself by taking a cold sponge bath and then dressed in the clean, newly mended gown she had been wearing when Alex had found her hanging on the cliff of Kynance Cove. She didn’t dare ruin any of Mémé’s. But she was going to need help if she was to succeed in the endeavor she must face today.

Time had run out.

She had gotten as much revenge as she was ever going to get by seeing Lawrence’s ruined lawn and gardens. And more importantly, she had the answer to why Lawrence had tried to discard her from his life. Now she must go, if only to avoid the awkwardness of hiding her sensibilities from Alex.

By the time she finished her toilette, her hands had stopped fluttering. She stared at her reflection in the looking glass, and there were roses in her cheeks. There was no doubt who had put them there. She felt more womanly than she had ever felt in her life.

And more alone than ever before.

Roxanne wended her way down the servants’ stairs and stopped a footman to ask the whereabouts of Isabelle.

“In the music room, ma’am.”

The music room? Roxanne was certain Isabelle had said she didn’t play any instrument. She stopped at the room’s entrance and heard one of the worst renditions of some sort of sonata on the flute. She made her presence known.

Isabelle stopped instantly. “Oh, thank heaven you’ve come to release me from my delusions of talent.”

“But you loathe playing instruments. You told me.”

“Yes, well, that was before
someone
mentioned his admiration of music and the woman who played with amazing flare.”

“Don’t tell me Mary has talent in that corner as well.”

“All right, I won’t. I shall only say that she plays the pianoforte like Mozart and sings like an operatic genius.”

“I really don’t like her.”

“Oh, stop it. We all like her.”

“She’s impossible.”

“Impossibly perfect.”

“Nobody likes perfection.”

“Except Cando—”

Roxanne interrupted. “He doesn’t. Oh, do let’s stop. We could go on all day and I have something important to ask you.”

“Yes?”

Roxanne retraced her steps and closed the music room door. “Isabelle, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but may I share a confidence? It is something gravely important, and I would require that you not speak of it to anyone. Ever. And it will likely change your opinion of me forever. But I have no other recourse.”

Isabelle’s eyes grew round with excitement. “Oh, I adore secrets. Does it have to do with your cousin? He’s proposed? Or did he . . .” She clapped her hands and covered her mouth with glee. “You can count on me. I shan’t tell a soul.”

“No,” Roxanne said sourly. “It has absolutely nothing to do with him.” She grasped Isabelle’s hands. “Look, my life depends on this. Truly.”

“Tell me.”

And following those two breathless words, she told Isabelle who she was, where she had lived, to whom she was married, the person she was indebted to for saving her life and hiding her, and finally that she would be leaving very soon to create a new life but needed her help.

“So, if I have the right of it, you’re really Harriet somebody?”

“No. Roxanne Vanderhaven. The daughter of Cormick Newton of Redruth.”

“Hmmm . . . Roxanne. I’ve always adored that name. Much lovelier than Tatiana, which never really sounded very English.”

Roxanne sighed.

“And you’re a tin miner’s daughter, not Kress’s third cousin four times removed? And the countess of an idiot.”

“Precisely.”

“And you’re in love with Kress.”

“I beg your pardon? I never said that.”

“Perhaps,” Isabelle said slyly. “But I knew it.”

Roxanne sighed again. “So will you help me?”

“Do what?”

“Recover my fortune. I can’t do it alone. And I do not trust anyone but you.”

“What about Kress?”

She looked at her feet. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, then,” Isabelle said. “Let’s be off.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Isabelle insisted. “Let’s take the servants’ entrance so no one will see us.”

“I shall forever be in your debt,” Roxanne said, taking up her friend’s hands. “You are the first noblewoman who doesn’t seem to mind the smell of tin.”

“Tin? Really? I’ve always thought you smell like honey if anything.”

“That’s just soap,” Roxanne said quietly. “Thank you, Isabelle. Thank you so very much.”

“Oh, botheration. Let’s go now before Mary comes and makes me feel even less capable of producing music with this bloody instrument than I am.”

Roxanne smiled and pulled her toward the door.

Within a half hour they were dashing across the shingle path to collect the horses they would need. As they rode toward the home of her childhood, Gwennap near Redruth, Roxanne felt a great calm settle over her. They took the older, forgotten lanes to avoid notice. But when the familiar scent of fresh, hot pasties drifted from a lone miner’s cottage, Roxanne begged Isabelle to go inside to buy two while she hid behind a stand of trees.

Isabelle bit into hers and moaned with delight. “Like apple pie. Mmmm.”

Roxanne grinned. “You started on the wrong end.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Isabelle mumbled as she took another inelegant, large bite.

“You’re supposed to start on the savory end—with the meat and potatoes and peas—and then you work your way to the side with the fruit.” Roxanne sniffed one end and bit into the flaky crust.

“How convenient,” Isabelle said, not at all following Roxanne’s directions. “But I shan’t stop now. I think I now prefer dessert first. One never knows if one will have room for it. True? Who cares about peas and potatoes when one can have something sweet?”

Roxanne adored Isabelle. She had never had a friend like her. Oh, the wives and daughters of the miners had enjoyed her company, but Roxanne had had to follow her father’s instructions to always remember that they were employees, and so to always be friendly and respectful, but never to confide anything of importance. Isabelle was the first lady with whom she could be fully herself.

“So where are we going?” Isabelle dabbed at her dainty mouth with the cloth Roxanne handed her from the saddle pouch.

“Very few people go to this place, Isabelle,” she warned. “For good reason. It was a mine my father started two decades ago. But it was abandoned after an accident. Miners refused to work it, saying it was haunted by those whose lives it claimed.”

“That is where he left your fortune?” Isabelle’s eyes were huge in her face.

“Don’t worry so. You’re not going down there,” Roxanne said with a smile. “I am.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Not at all. I know all the mines very well, even this one. While there is an old wives’ tale suggesting women in mines are bad luck, that never stopped me from going with my father. I was always fascinated by every aspect of the trade.”

Roxanne took up the reins again and clucked to urge her horse forward. Isabelle followed suit. The petite duchess asked an endless number of questions the rest of the ride to the deserted Wheal Bissoe mine.

Roxanne knew her father would have left everything she would need, as his attention to detail had been unparalleled. Indeed, when she drew closer to the narrow, stone engine house, and the smaller structure which housed the miners’ dry goods, she could almost sense her father’s spirit hovering nearby. In his old locker, she found a set of canvas jacket and trousers along with traditional wooden-soled boots, and several felt tulle hats hardened with pine resin. He had not forgotten to leave beeswax candles—one at each end of a very long wick. She swung several about her neck.

“I forgot the clay in the saddlebag, Isabelle,” she said to her friend, who appeared more terrified than Roxanne had hoped. “Don’t worry. It will only take an hour or so to negotiate the ladders. I’m certain my father accounted for the varying level of the water. The pump was destroyed by the blast, but not the series of platforms and ladders at the top.

“Why do you need clay?” Isabelle was desperately trying to act much calmer than she was.

“I’ll show you.”

Isabelle didn’t need any further hint to fetch the packet. Roxanne peered into the dark entrance to the mine and took a deep breath as she mumbled an old Cornish mining prayer.