The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel) (26 page)

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Alex sank into another deep curtsy, anger simmering in her heart. She still refused to believe her parents were dead, but she did acknowledge that she had little choice but to obey for now. She would find a way to continue her search, even if for a time that meant investigations from a London town house. What she needed was another clue.

Rising, she glanced back at the duke. He had risen and was bowing toward the regent. The prince started to say something to him and then shook his head and waved him away, appearing to change his mind.

Gabriel came up to Alex and took her hand, looking into her eyes for the first time.

A current of sparks seemed to leap from his fingers as they grasped hers. She took a little inhale, her eyes searching his eyes, roving over his face.

“Allow me to escort you home, my lady,” his deep voice murmured.

Home.

Yes, home. She nodded, gripped his offered arm, and allowed herself to be led to her new life as the ward of the Duke of St. Easton.

HE COULDN'T LOOK AT HER.
Tight breath, sweaty palms, racing heart—it did things to his body that made his world tilt toward madness, leaving him reeling in senses gone awry. Instead, Gabriel kept his gaze on the passing view outside the carriage window as they made their way through London’s streets toward his town house. He had one knee drawn up, an elbow resting on it, his fingers gripping his chin in what his close friends would say was a gesture of deep concentration.

Meade sat beside him and across from Alexandria, carrying the conversation for him, making Gabriel appear an arrogant aristocrat he supposed, but better than a deaf one. He couldn’t bear to tell her or even look at her for longer than a moment. Not yet. Not until he had these emotions under control.

He glanced at Meade’s animated, smiling face and a streak of pure jealousy and rage burst through him. That should be him sharing stories and making her feel at ease in her new surroundings. It should be his remembrances of their time in Ireland that were causing her to laugh, colors bursting through the carriage at the sound of her laughter so vibrant he had to turn away and stare out the window. He hated himself. Hated this blasted weakness. He balled his hands into fists and turned his head further away, closing his eyes.

The carriage finally rocked to a stop. Thank God. Gabriel sprang from the conveyance before it had come to a complete stop and bolted for the front door. He shouted directions to the household as he rushed through the hall and up the stairs to his suite of rooms.

“Lady Featherstone is here. Jane! Come take care of things. Mrs. Miller, make certain her room is ready; it has to be perfect. Dinner at eight.”

Jane burst into the hall. “Gabriel?”

He swung toward her, his voice lowering. “I can’t do it yet. No one is to tell her. Do you know what I am saying, Jane?”

Jane paled and nodded.

“Get her settled, will you?”

She nodded again, a pleading kind of sorrow in her eyes.

“Just give me a little time.”

Just a little time to know what it might have been like.

He turned, swung away, and padded to his rooms. Once inside he paced, caged within a prison of his own making. He pushed back the heavy folds of the drapery at the windows and pulled them wide, letting in the westward sunlight. In a frenzy to feel the air he opened the sash, lifted it wide, and stood back against the sudden cool breeze, breathing it in and asking the question.

Why?

God, why?

Why give me this woman now, when I’m so weak and broken, when I’m not myself, when I’m so needy and . . . afraid. How am I to win her heart now? It would have been so easy before, when I was strong, when I had everything, when I thought I knew . . . everything.

He thought back on the life he used to have, how easy it was, how wonderful. He clenched his fists remembering how dull it had felt, how he’d had everything anyone could have imagined and it had tasted like dust in his mouth. The ennui that had haunted him was gone now, but in its place was searing emotion—pain, struggle, heartache, jealousy, rage, and on the other extreme, love, heartrending, besotted love that tore him apart.

She can’t . . . she won’t love me now.

He fell to one knee in front of his grand windows and lifted his face toward heaven. He asked for answers. He wanted answers and solutions and fixes to the emotional upheaval his life had become, the broken pieces of his life that lay at his feet.

His whole being cried out for relief, for . . . something. And then he heard a word, a single word. It made no sense, but it rang like a clanging bell throughout his entire being. The one thing that had always meant everything to him, his journey toward God.

Music.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T
his is your room.” After a brief tour of the house, the duke’s sister Jane, who seemed very kind but weighed down with sadness too, encouraged Alex inside with a smile and an excited light in her eyes. She opened the double doors and led the way into the most astounding suite Alex had ever seen.

She walked into the middle of the main room, a sitting room and huge bedchamber in one, and looked up and up toward a ceiling within a ceiling of ornate plasterwork. There was no gold in this room, for which Alex was glad. No notion of kings and dukes and people who thrived on golden power. No, this room was in shades of sunrise, from pale pink and lavender to creams and soft shades of yellow.

The ceiling, where she couldn’t tear her eyes from, didn’t have one massive chandelier but twenty or so miniature ones in various lengths, hanging from high to low, their shapes from wide to narrow, some with many arms, some with a few, combining to make hundreds of dancing lights that flickered against the pearl essence of the ceiling.

The walls were lined with cream wainscoting and elegant molding around every window, doorway, and cove. The floor was pale marble, barely seen beneath thick carpets in lavender and cream, and farther across the huge space were two giant rugs swirling with pastel designs. She walked farther into the airy room. Beyond the sitting area, her personal drawing room, was the bedchamber. The bed was a huge four-poster with draping transparent curtains. Beneath it was a lavender-and-cream-striped counterpane, so thick she would be able to sleep on top of it from anywhere and not feel discomfort. She touched the softness, her gaze soaking in the hundreds of thought-out details.

There were window coves with deep-cushioned seating areas, a pretty writing desk, little tables and delicate chairs, all done in pale yellows and shades of purple. Paintings and fresh flowers and sweet little knickknacks and delicate trinkets. She couldn’t see it all, there was so much.

“Oh my.” The sound escaped her.

Jane turned, a pleased smile on her face. “Do you like it?”

She looked at the duke’s sister and shook her head, a feeling of disbelief taking over. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know places like this existed.” Her gaze roamed over and over the gleaming furnishings, the paintings, the statuettes, the plants that must be real they were so thick and green.

Jane beckoned her further with her hand. “There’s more. Come see this. It is my favorite part.”

Alex followed her into an arched alcove, one of several the room held. They came into a smaller room lit from above by windows in the ceiling. Alex gasped as row upon row of colorful gowns, shawls and cloaks, shoes and stockings, petticoats and nightdresses, hats and bonnets—every wardrobe article imaginable met her eyes.

“He sent instructions for them to be made up for you after his visit to Holy Island.” Jane pulled forth a gown of pale pink with a transparent overskirt in filmy white, rows of threaded white ribbon on the hem and sleeves. It seemed made of sunrise and mist. “Do you like it?”

Did she like it?

It was the most perfect dress she’d ever seen.

He’d done all this for her? And after finding her gone from Holy Island? She had supposed he must have been terribly angry when he found her missing. But there must have been something else he felt . . . to have done all this for her. The rooms, the gowns, the preparations—the time and thought he must have put into it.

She turned away before Jane could see the sheen of tears that rushed to her eyes as she stared, dumbfounded, at the lavish display. She blinked them back, touching another gown in deep red, trying not to crumble in a mass of emotion in front of his sister, trying to understand what was happening.

She took a deep breath and a step toward Jane and the dress. “How?” She held out her arm. “Why?”

Jane lowered the dress until it hung to the floor in a pink frothy pool around them. “You don’t know?”

Alex shook her head, lips pressed down and quivering.

Jane leaned over and gave her a light hug. “You’ll see. Just give him some time.” She thrust the gown into Alex’s arms and turned to go. “Dinner is at eight.” She waved over her shoulder and left Alex in the middle of a parade of color.

After Jane left, all the energy drained from Alex’s body. She stripped down to her chemise and took the dress to the bed with her. She peeled back the mound of coverlets, slid inside, and spread the exquisite gown out beside her, clutching a tulle sleeve.

She drifted to sleep dreaming of green-eyed panthers and a man with jet black hair with a look that took her breath away. As she drifted down deeper the dream changed. She saw John’s face blown to pieces and heard her cries and screams. She tried to stop the blood with the pink gown, but it only turned red and dark and then black. She woke with a strangled cry, clutching the dress to her face and panting so hard she couldn’t catch her breath.

A sudden bell rang from somewhere in the house. What time was it? She rubbed her face. It was a dream. But a dream that had really happened. Her heart felt leaden, guilty because of the lavish rooms and the gift of a life John no longer had.

Dear Lord, I know he did some foolish, awful things, but I hope he is in heaven with You. I hope he believed in Your son for salvation.
She wished she had talked about it with him and knew for certain.

She swung out of the high bed and landed on her feet. But it was too much to dwell on in the midst of so much change. She had to give this new life a chance, didn’t she? Starting with dinner at eight.

Pushing aside the dark thoughts, she slipped off her clothes and called for a maid to help her dress in the new finery. The pink gown fit perfectly. Going to the dressing table inside the dressing room, she sank down and searched through the drawers. Mirrors and powders, cosmetics, brushes, combs, hair bands, and tiaras—were those real jewels? And then in the middle, a wide drawer full of velvet-lined rows of necklaces, bracelets, rings, and earrings. Jewels glittered back at her in all shapes and sizes.

Was there no end to what had he done?

She lifted out a delicate diamond-and-pearl necklace, a large diamond pendant hanging from the center. With wide, unblinking eyes she lifted it to her throat. Dare she wear such a thing? There were earrings and a bracelet to match. In a daze she put them on, one by one, watched the maid twist her dark tresses into coils of curls around the delicate combs, and then looked at herself in the mirror. This was what he wanted. This was what was expected of a ward of the Duke of St. Easton. It was suddenly clear. This was her new life.

With a deep breath she took out a delicate fan from another drawer and experimented with fanning it. It was almost eight o’clock. Almost time for dinner.

Let it begin.

GABRIEL CLIMBED THE STAIRS TO
his private box at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane and settled in for the evening performance. It had been a fortnight since he had installed Alexandria into his household. A fortnight of watching her from afar and directing her every activity—the dancing and music lessons, the commissioning of her portrait that she sat for at exactly ten o’clock each morning, the walks and rides in Hyde Park, the calls she received and the calls she and Jane paid, her first small forays into society with his sister at a musical soirée and a dinner party made up of his sisters, their families, and some close friends.

He met with Jane and Meade each day and planned her debut with a military precision that left nothing to chance. She would know her options and she would choose what life she wanted; he would make sure of that.

The fact that she asked after him, according to Jane, wondered why he wouldn’t speak to her, have dinner with her, see her at all, could not steer him from his course. Even with Jane’s pleading and Meade’s nervous head shaking, they didn’t understand. Without the shield of distance and letters, he felt disfigured in her presence. But he could give her anything the world had to offer. He still had that.

Settling in his seat, he returned to the place that always brought him comfort. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. With practice he had discovered that he could tell when the music began through the vibrations of his wooden box. Then as he relaxed into the vibrating sounds all around him, he lost himself in the colors. They became a sort of prayer, a worshipful prayer he imagined only he and God shared. His being hummed with the vibrations, casting out his own colors up toward God, a living instrument of praise and worship.

It was a place of mystery and yet clarity—a place where he felt whole. Here being deaf was an advantage, being weak and broken brought the beauty of humility into his heart, and he could breathe deep and let go and believe and trust and bask in God’s love for him. When the world and the voices around him said he was broken, he came here to find peace.

He no longer worshiped music itself; he used music as a tool to worship God.

A FEW HOURS LATER HE
returned to his town house. The place was lit up with lights from every window. A carriage stopped at his front door and let out four people dressed in the height of fashion. They paused outside his house and Gabriel stopped. Time slowed as he watched them adjust their hats and skirts, bowed toward one of them, and start toward the door.