My Dangerous Duke (16 page)

“Please—I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful—but after all those weeks in the Doyles’ cellar, I have been … very home-sick.” She lowered her gaze, embarrassed to have to make this vulnerable admission, but she could not afford to offend the only ally she currently had in the world. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I meant no rudeness. I am altogether grateful to you for helping me, of course. Thank you—once again.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. But she could feel him studying her. “Try to understand, Kate. I know you don’t want to be here any more than I do. But at the end of the day, you really have no choice except to trust me.”

That’s what I was afraid of.
She gazed at him in mingled distress and gratitude. “Perhaps you could tell me what else Peter Doyle had to say?”

Before he could reply, Eldred stepped into the dining room and made his formal announcement. “Your Grace, Miss Madsen: Dinner is served.”

While the two of them sat there studying each other from across the table in mutually attracted mistrust, a parade of liveried footmen marched into the dining room carrying silver-lidded serving dishes, baskets of bread, assorted gravies, and a lavish selection of wines.

Eldred, with his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back, announced each dish in lugubrious tones: “Scalloped oysters. Fillets of veal, stuffed and roasted, with savoys, carrots, and potatoes. Roasted capons garnished with dilled sausage …”

As he droned on, the footmen worked around them, placing the serving dishes on the table with geometrical precision. They no sooner whisked the lids away than others dipped forward like life-sized clockwork automata, pouring the newly arrived wines into their proper glasses and setting in easy reach the bottles that went with each dish.

“Broiled sturgeon with French beans, carrots, and cauliflower. A fricassee of rabbit, oysters, and mushrooms. Squab pigeons with asparagus. And finally—” He bowed to the duke. “Mince pies.”

“Excellent,” His Grace murmured in approval.

Eldred drew himself up politely. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Thank you, Eldred. That will do for now.”

The butler bowed and signaled to the footmen, who then marched out in a line, except for two, who took their places in the shadows of the distant wall, to wait on them as needed.

Rohan turned his attention to the burgeoning table, taking a leisurely survey of the spread, rather like a wolf looking out over a flock of sheep. “Where to begin?”

“I cannot fathom how you are not as stout as the Regent.”

“I stay active,” he drawled with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “A toast to you, my darling.”

“Honestly,” she muttered, but, alas, could not resist him as he lifted his glass of now-red wine in her direction.

“To new acquaintances,” he said. “And outwitting the Grim Reaper once again. And most of all, to young ladies of remarkable courage. I drink their health.”

When he cast her a teasing wink full of outlandish charm, Kate did not know if she would throttle him or swoon.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what else Peter Doyle had to say?” she demanded.

“Not in the presence of good food, my dear. Well, it is English food. All the more reason to eat it before it gets cold. Cheers.” He reached over and clinked his glass to hers with a cheeky look that informed her the conversation was closed for now.

“Warrington.”

“Come, Kate. No arguing over supper. ’Tisn’t civilized.”

The Beast was going to critique her etiquette? “At least tell me if Peter explained—”

“Kate! Surely you can enjoy a simple meal,” he chided. “Look at all the trouble my poor kitchen staff has gone to for your sake.”

“For my sake?” she exclaimed. “I’m just a prisoner!”

“Prisoner, guest, semantics. My servants so want to impress you. Now then.” He took up knife and fork in each large hand. “Let’s eat, shall we? God knows, there are so few pleasures in life, we might as well enjoy ’em.”

She clenched her jaw. She believed she had just been told, more or less, to shut up and eat.

But as the mouthwatering aromas of their feast teased her nose, she had to concede that her questions weren’t going anywhere for the moment. At least she was out of that cellar, and had not died today.

Perhaps she ought to let herself enjoy her first night of relative freedom in weeks.

Rohan gave her a coaxing nod toward the food like a man trying to get a wounded wild animal to eat.

Was that what she had become after her ordeal? At home on the windy moors, alone with the falcons and the wild ponies, she had never been all that tame to start with.

She regarded him a wary look, but slowly, uncertainly, she picked up her fork and proceeded to dine with the duke.

Chapter 9

A
s the evening passed and the candles burned low, and the dining room darkened, but for the fire, Rohan was beginning to wonder if his attraction to this woman could become a problem.

The whole purpose of tonight had been to provide himself with a chance to study her carefully at close range, but he was beginning to think that even if she
had
been sent by the enemy to destroy him, it might not be a bad way to go.

Her reticence intrigued him. He still didn’t trust her, but her obvious vulnerability, from embarrassment over her tears to her confession of homesickness, plucked at heartstrings in him that he thought he had ripped out by the roots long ago.

For two hours, he watched and listened to her, trying to determine if her claims about herself were true, if she was being honest or if her seeming innocence was a façade.

Wholly attuned to every idle shift and movement of her luscious body in that jaw-dropping gown, he ignored his growing desire for her as he sought to read each flicker of emotion in her face and eyes. Trying to penetrate her nature through judicious observation, continuously scanning her for signs of deception or ill intent, he monitored every subtle change in her demeanor and listened to her casual conversation with intense absorption.

Indeed, his wariness about her caused him to pay a much deeper attention to her than he normally did to any woman.

But in spite of all his doubts about Kate, by the time the rich and colorful dessert course was unfurled before them, they had somehow fallen together into the natural camaraderie of two people who had shared a brush with death—never mind the fact that their two families had been at each other’s throats for hundreds of years.

Her
throat interested him greatly, the lovely arc beneath her dainty earlobe, the milky skin, the silken cascade of her perfumed hair …

His mind drifted, the wine warming his senses. It had now been three days since he’d had a woman, and he had not forgotten the way she had felt beneath him last night. He still wanted her in spite of himself.

Her lips’ dewy roses beguiled him, along with the teasing sparkle in those emerald eyes beneath her black velvet lashes. The candlelight brought out a golden luster in the depths of her light brown hair and danced along the delicate lines of her bare shoulders.

Was it wrong to want to lick the caramel sauce out of her splendid cleavage instead of drizzling it politely on the cheesecake? He did his best to keep a tight rein on his dangerous hunger for her, even as his hands tingled with yearning to caress all her creamy, glowing skin.

As he took another large swallow of port, he contemplated the fact that there was one sure way to find out if she was really as innocent as she would have him believe.

If she was a part of her forebears’ sinister conspiracy, it was unlikely that she was a virgin. He was keenly tempted to verify her status for himself by luring her into his bed and finishing what they had started last night.

But even if he sensed that a well-timed advance from him might not be unfavorably received, he refused to set foot down that road.

There were only two possible outcomes, and he already knew he’d regret it either way. If she was a heartless Promethean agent, he’d hate himself for joining his body with hers. If not, and she was as pure as his instincts felt her to be, well, that was almost as bad.

His father had taught him as a lad that what you broke, you paid for. If he bedded Kate and ended up taking her virginity, then he would be saddled with her in earnest. Which was precisely why he never dallied with virgins. He liked his women worldly and experienced, as coldly able to walk away from their couplings as he was, without a sentimental backward glance.

Nevertheless, he throbbed as he watched the languid motion of her fingertip circling along the brim of her champagne flute.

He had plied her with wine to get her to open up to him, and by now, they were having a rather cozy time of it.

She was chatting about her hobbies, for he had asked her what she liked to do for amusement, part of his subtle effort to draw her out. “As it happens, I have a terrible weakness for books.”

“What kinds of books?”

“All kinds.” Her white shoulders lifted in a charming little shrug, momentarily fascinating him. “History, science, natural philosophy.”

“Really?” Born and bred for action, he had never been much of a scholar himself.

“Oh, yes. The ancients. Traveler’s tales. And … Gothic novels,” she admitted, biting her lip with an impish twinkle in her eyes. “Ghosts and curses and such.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Don’t groan!” she protested, laughing. “You don’t know what you’re missing! I’ll bet you’ve never even read one!”

“I’m living one,” he muttered under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“Haven’t you heard? The castle’s haunted. Keep an eye out for the Gray Lady,” he said dryly. “You’ll find she especially likes the staircase. I am not jesting!” he added mildly as she scoffed.

“Your Grace!” She tilted her head, her green eyes shining as she narrowed them at him. “You don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Stranger things, Horatio.”

“Very well, I’ll play along—though I know you’re bamming me. Who is this ghost of yours?”

“The first Warrington duchess, Mathilda—supposedly strangled to death by her husband.”

She studied him for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I recall the smugglers trying to scare me with some cock-and-bull tale about your bloodlines being cursed. What’s all that about?”

He looked at her for a long moment, drumming his fingers slowly on the table. If she was feigning ignorance, perhaps he could lure her into giving herself away; she should already know the tale, being the descendant of the story’s villain.

Frankly, superstitious as he was, Rohan did not like talking about it. It seemed bad luck. But the story of the Kilburn Curse could provide him with a neat side entry into the darker matters they still had to discuss.

He heaved a sigh when he finally started. “A great long time ago, the first Lord Kilburn was a knight in the service of Edward the Black Prince, and one of his boon companions. My ancestors were the Earls of Kilburn before they were given the dukedom,” he explained as an aside. “Lord Kilburn was my courtesy title when my father was alive.”

“I see.”

“At any rate, a conspiracy to kill Prince Edward was unearthed. Justice was swift in those days, and all participants in the plot were sentenced to be hunted down and brought back, dead or alive. My ancestor, Lord Kilburn, volunteered to pursue the one conspirator that no one else dared oppose—Valerian the Alchemist. None of the other knights would do it for fear of the sorcerer’s black magic.”

She tapped her lip for a moment. “Valerian the Alchemist … why does that sound so familiar? I could swear I’ve heard of him.”

“Have you?” Rohan studied her keenly for a moment, but he could find no trace of guile or deception in her eyes.

“What was he? Some kind of court astrologer?”

“Oh, your average medieval sorcerer. A man of some renown.”

“I must’ve come across his name in one of my history books.” She nodded, smiled at him, and poured herself a little more champagne. “Go on, please. I like this story.”

“When Lord Kilburn finally cornered the Alchemist, there was a great battle. You can believe what you like, but according to legend, there were various demons involved, summoned by the power of the Alchemist’s dark spells.”

“Demons, too! Are you sure you didn’t get all this from Mrs. Radcliffe?”

He sent her a dry look. “Though the sorcerer’s demons were sorely attacking our brave Lord Kilburn, at last, he got one clear shot and picked up his crossbow to put an arrow in the warlock’s black heart. Unfortunately, somehow, he hit the Alchemist’s bride instead.”

“Oh, pity! What was she doing at a battle?”

“It was her home. Kilburn had tracked Valerian to his castle and laid siege. She expired in her husband’s arms. Officially, my ancestors have always maintained that Valerian pulled the girl in front of him to use her body as a shield.”

“Most ungallant!”

“Quite. So, you see, her death was actually Valerian’s own doing—but that only heightened his wrath. Distraught as he was, he failed to defend himself and was struck down a few minutes later. But with his dying breath, he laid the curse on all the Kilburn lords, that they would murder their own wives in revenge for slaying his.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Our Gray Lady, the Duchess Mathilda, was the first, but I fear, not the last Warrington bride to die by her husband’s hand.”

“Oh, Lord. I’ll never fall asleep here now.”

Rohan smiled at her, but his eyes were grim. “Every few centuries, somehow, it happens again. Most unfortunate. The Lord Kilburn who cut down the Alchemist ended up strangling his poor Mathilda—allegedly.”

“Allegedly?”

“Some claim it was a disgruntled servant who attacked her. Others say she actually hanged herself after losing a baby, but Kilburn took the blame so she could be buried in the churchyard.”