The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (8 page)

Not that he would be doing much of that.

His dark brows lowered over eyes the color of emeralds in a deep scowl. He had never minded dancing, even with debutantes. It was the music he loved, he supposed. Anything to do with music, he loved. But how could he dance when he couldn't hear the song? How did Beethoven compose without hearing the notes? He had to try. The game would be up before they even began if he didn't try.

Gabriel turned from the mirror, ignoring the fear that made his palms clammy. He motioned Meade to follow him into his bedchamber and then spun toward him. "What is it, Meade? Have my sisters arrived? The ball started over an hour ago."

Meade bowed his head in a low nod. "Yes, Your Grace." He held out the speaking book.

Gabriel took it with a short motion of impatience, seeing the page filled with his secretary's neat hand. His hatred for the speaking book was well known, but when more than a few sentences needed to be communicated, it was more efficient despite its tedious nature. His gaze scanned the instructions and reminders for the night. He nodded and thrust the book back into Meade's hands. Yes, yes, he knew very well what to do. The plan, several small plans to be exact, to pull off the feat of the duke appearing normal before a crowd of over two hundred was neat in its simplicity. Still, it would be risky and not a little ridiculous at times, but it just might work.

It had to work.

"Let's get on with it, shall we?" Gabriel strode from the room, head held high, heart in his throat.

Before he had reached the top of the grand staircase, his youngest sister, Jane, rushed to his side. She took hold of his upper arm and smiled up at him. Was she blinking back tears? Good heavens, just what he needed right now. A simpering female to calm down. But in his heart he didn't believe it. His mother and sisters were privy to the plan and he knew she was trying to do her part to buffer and protect him. He turned his head away from her loving face—those big, brown, compassionate eyes—and swallowed . . . hard.

The house was quiet for a party. His silent party. If he hadn't seen the date on the invitations himself, he would never know another soul was here.

A sensation of being in a dream washed over him as they made their way down the long staircase, across the great, silent hall, and to the threshold of the ballroom. It was as if he could hear one thing and one thing only—the tick . . . tick . . . tick of time slowing down. The air thickened in his throat. His hands began to tremble. He grasped for control. This was not his reality. It couldn't be. He clasped his hands together in front of his stomach and forced them to stop shaking.

Jane looked up at him with concern, he could feel it in the way her spine went taut and her hand tightened around his arm, but he ignored her. If he looked into her face he might break in half, right here in front of everyone. No. Couldn't allow that. He stood at the entrance to his grand ballroom, seeing the crush of people, their mouths moving so fast, their faces hot, sweaty, animated, couples twirling to silence. The orchestra bent over their instruments, looking more like a group of land laborers than artists. Where was the beauty? Where had it gone?

Dear God.

He looked at Jane with silent pleading.

We can do this.
Her lips said it and her eyes said it and he remembered who he was.

A duke. The Duke of St. Easton, to be exact.

AFTER THE FIRST HOUR HE actually began to enjoy himself. It was easy to float from group to group, nod, say hello and the usual pleasantries, and move on. He kept a glass of champagne in his hand but didn't dare drink it. Had to remain alert for danger. Like skirting possible land mines, he avoided those people who would question him to death over some inconsequential matter. Lord Rowland wanted to talk politics in the world after Napoleon; Randoff Yeatley, horses; and his brother-in-law, the value of the latest investment. The girls had done a good job of keeping the secret and, taking turns hanging on the outskirts of whatever group he was in, rushing in to pull him away on some urgent matter should he seem to be flailing. It was actually going quite well.

A touch on the back of his arm made him turn around, a bland smile pasted on his face. Blanche Rosenbury, the Countess of Sherwood. Rich, powerful in her own right, and very, very beautiful. His gaze flicked over her deep blue gown that openly displayed a full bosom. He took a very tiny sip of his drink, the look of the expected admiration touching his eyes. "Lady Rosenbury, how good to see you."

She turned her head a little to one side in that flirtatious way she had mastered before her debut and lowered her lashes in mock modesty. Gabriel stared at her pink lips hoping to be able to read them, but she was looking too far down and aside. As she continued talking he started to panic. Where was Mary? He'd just seen his middle sister not two minutes ago. Giving up on knowing what she said, he only let out a nondescript "hmmm" and searched those nearby for his sister's bright orange dress. They had decided it best to wear bright colors in case he needed to find them, so where the deuce was she?

A flash of orange over his right shoulder had him glancing that way. There. Wingate had her cornered, of course. The man couldn't seem to give her any leeway to move about in public without him hovering over her shoulder. "Condition" or not, he would have to check into that.

A tap on his arm brought his gaze back to the fuming redhead. Lady Rosenbury's eyes snapped with angry sparks as she prattled out some nonsense from her artificially stained lips.

Gabriel sniffed as if affronted and shook his head. "As you say, madame." He turned and strode away, hoping he hadn't agreed to something.

In his hurry and confusion where to go next, he nearly stumbled. As he righted himself, casting about to see if anyone had noticed, he found himself thrust in a group of youngbloods. They immediately bowed, one in particular turning out his leg and bowing over it in an exaggerated posture of respect. Gabriel raised his brows at the dandy. Here was a group he could handle. They would hang on any word he said.

Mr. Meade appeared in his forward line of vision prepared to make the necessary signs if needed. One finger meant "yes." Two meant "no." If he rubbed the bridge of his nose, they were asking about horses. Tugged on the hair above his left ear meant investments, and if he coughed they had brought up the topic of gambling, more coughing meant horse gambling and trading.

Gabriel watched the lips of the young Mr. Hyde, hero worship in his eyes. He said something along the lines of "your humble servant" and bowed again, then asked a question. Gabriel missed it and looked to Meade. Unfortunately Meade was wide-eyed with panic. He made a motion of holding out his arms and then bringing them in as if he were hugging someone. What the devil did that mean? Before too much time could go by Gabriel looked back at Mr. Hyde and gave him a tight smile. "Very good," he said, feeling heat fill his cheeks as he wondered if that would pass.

A look of uncomfortable confusion passed over the young man's face, but before Gabriel had time to wonder how badly he had mistepped, another young man stepped forward with a comment.

Gabriel stared at his lips and then realized how odd that looked. Most of the time when he was trying to decipher what someone said by lip reading, the person knew of his difficulty. But not here, not now. Staring at a person's mouth wasn't exactly good etiquette and might even raise some uncomfortable questions. As he was thinking this, he realized he had not been paying attention and hadn't any idea what the fellow had said. With a desperate start, he shot a quick look at Meade. Thanks be to God, he was having a coughing fit. Must be horses.

"Have you seen Lord Grant's new stud?" he asked and then hurried on before he had to read an answer. "Best stallion I've seen in some time. You all should visit his stables and get a look before he takes him off to Surrey."

The men around him paled, one coughed into his hand appearing to hide a smile, while another looked genuinely afraid. Gabriel glanced at Meade and saw that his secretary was equally ashen. He had blundered again. Time to remove himself.

Just at that moment a group of young women passed by. He didn't know any of them but that never mattered. He was the host and could introduce himself. Smiling with all the confidence he could muster, he bid the group farewell.

"I find myself ready to dance, gentlemen. And I see a lovely accomplice right over there. If you will excuse me?"

They all nodded as he gave them a small bow and backed away, disappearing into the crowd. He would have to dance now. A young woman who would be more nervous than he would be the best choice. He scanned the crowd and then saw the group and strode over to them. Four women of differing degrees of attractiveness. All in their first or second year of being "out" and still blessedly naïve. Perfect.

He stood near the group and waited . . . one . . . two . . . three.

One of them gasped and the others turned their heads toward him. Just the response he'd been hoping for. He took another step toward their group, not looking directly at them and then, as if just noticing them from the corner of his eye, he turned his face toward them and bowed his head. "Ladies."

They just stared, which was perfect.

"Do you see my sister over there?"

They gazed to where he was pointing and then nodded, still looking dazed and a little terrified.

"As you can imagine, she and my mother are insisting I cast about for a wife. Tedious business, but I'm thinking to mollify them for the moment by dancing. Any volunteers?"

The petite blonde batted her lashes, her quick breathing making her bosom rise up and down so fast Gabriel thought she might faint. Another darker blonde just stared at him as if he was a statue come to life and was asking her to dance. But the brunette, not the pretty one, took a bold step forward and had the courage to touch his sleeve. "I'll dance." She lifted her chin with a determined air.

Gabriel gave her a bland smile and held out his arm. He hoped she'd had the necessary lessons.

Once on the dance floor, he started to feel nervous again but was determined not to show it. He took the young woman into his arms in the proper stance and watched the orchestra. As soon as the man's bow touched the strings of the violin, he began to move with the crush of dancers on the floor. One, two, three—one, two, three—one, two, three—turn. It wasn't so hard. If he concentrated he could feel the vibration of the music enough to give him the timing of the beat. Astounding really, that vibration traveled through the air. Or maybe it was the floor that vibrated, he wasn't sure, but it seemed to be enough.

Round and round they swept along on the notes of the waltz. If the woman in his arms tried to talk to him, he didn't notice. He was too busy making sure he didn't misstep. When it was over, he took her back to her friends, who began babbling at her with excited faces the minute he backed away.

He needed a break, a rest, from this emotional and mental fatigue that was still new to him. He made his way past groups of smiling, waving acquaintances to the French doors at the back of the ballroom and slipped outside into the garden. The night air soothed his hot cheeks. He sucked in breaths, exhaustion overcoming him. The thought of the midnight dinner to come made his stomach twist into knots. Too much conversation. He couldn't do it. He was starting to fail and had possibly already made a spectacle of himself. Too risky. He would have to make some excuse. He would retire. Send Meade a note and let him take care of it.

Thinking of the note, he realized he could circle around to the other side of the house and let himself in another set of doors that led to his library. Feeling strangely like a thief in his own house, he hugged the brownstone and clung to shadows as he edged toward the doors under the light of a sliver of moon. There. They were unlocked. Thank God.

He let himself in and lit a candle. Sitting down at the desk, he pulled forth a blank sheet of stationery and wrote out quick instructions. He folded the paper and was about to ring for a servant when he saw a small stack of post on one corner of his desk. In all the preparations for the ball, he'd forgotten to check his mail.

He flipped through it, making piles according to importance. And then he saw it. A letter from Holy Island. A letter from the impossible, audacious creature that was his ward. His heart gave a leap of pleasure and his lips broke into a smile. He flipped it over and lifted the seal, bringing the candle closer to read. What was his lovely little hoyden up to now?

My Dear Duke,

I don't know where to begin to explain all the difficulties this poor creature (that being myself), bereft of parents and alone in the world except for the guidance of your fine self, has so suddenly experienced. Just this morning I stepped out of my castle to more disasters. Have I told you about the island's castle and monastery? No? Dear sir, there are hardly two stones sitting next to each other to cover our heads. The ravages of time and hostiles have left us bereft of all but an occasional wall and a crumbling roof to keep us dry. Why, just the other day I had to hire
two
three men to repair another horrid hole in the roof. The constant dripping and leaking has us all at wit's end. What I really need are some workmen, and sir, you must know that a good carpenter, mason, and blacksmith will cost a great deal. I have so much work for them to do! I do lose sleep over it. Tossing and turning in my bed and wondering how I will ever make ends meet on a girl's allowance. Am I not the mistress now? Do I not deserve the funds to make this place finally habitable? I implore you, Your Grace, to reconsider the allotment of the fortune my parents left me. While they did not seem to have much regard for this lonely island, (they were rarely home long enough to feel the discomforts of leaky stone), I have been here and am yet here, making my future and way in this world the best I can. There is so much need. Shall I list some more of it for you?

The wool from the sheep could be better traded and made into cloth for our cold winters. I can't remember the last time I had a warm cloak and dress. I'm still wearing fashions from the last decade, I can assure you. My servants run about in rags, mostly. Mr. Meade can surely testify to the state of my household staff.