Duke of Thunder (Regency Gods #1)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

H elen wondered if she hadn’t perhaps died and was now in a form of purgatory masquerading as this dinner party. As an Englishwoman, she’d been raised in the Anglican church, but Northton’s proximity to Scotland meant she was well acquainted with many Catholics and thus the pernicious danger of purgatory.

Her evidence in favor was thus:

One, she had clearly been here for seven thousand hours.

Two, just as it had seemed as though the dinner was finally ending, Lord Featherston had announced that they would all adjourn to the parlor for drinks and discourse.

Three, the Duke of Godwin was being…playful.

It was this third part that Helen considered the most damning evidence.

“I see why you need my help,” he said with a melodramatic sigh as they returned to the parlor. “You’re hopeless.”

She should have been more perturbed by this comment, which, no matter how delivered, played on her very real fears. Instead, however, she only felt compelled to roll her eyes.

“I take it back,” she said. “I don’t want your help anymore. Please go bother anyone else.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he said solemnly, apologetically, laying a hand on his chest.

And then, for the very first time, she thought, they were smiling together—not one at the other, but each with the other.

It was disconcertingly nice.

“Your Grace.” An older, portly gentleman with an astonishingly capacious mustache approached where Helen and the duke stood. “I do beg your pardon for interrupting, but I had hoped that we might speak about that shipping venture out of Canada?—”

Helen watched in amazement as the duke transformed before her eyes. She’d read, in dramatic novels, about heroines collapsing into an inelegant faint. They’d been compared to marionettes with cut strings. This, however, was the opposite; the duke appeared to be a man whose strings were not yanked per se—he was far too composed for that—but someone whose tethers were pulled slowly but inexorably taut until even the soft smile on his face was washed away by the tension.

In the space of a breath, his playfulness was gone, and he was replaced by… Well, not precisely the man that Helen had known before tonight, either, because there had always been something teasing about the predator’s danger, and that was wholly absent now.

But he was replaced by something closer, no doubt, to the man she’d known previously.

“Lord Tenney,” he said, with a polite incline of his head. “Might I introduce Miss Helen Fletcher, cousin to Viscount Northton?”

Lord Tenney barely spared Helen a glance. “Yes, charmed, I’m sure. Now, Your Grace, we simply must do something; the cod has been down again this season, and the shipping lines are not producing…”

Taking this as her cue, Helen unobtrusively slipped away. She was scouting the room for Patricia—she’d left her sister alone for far too many hours, distracted as she’d been by the duke—when the Marquess of Featherston called gaily out to the crowd of guests.

“Now, now, my dear friends,” he called out. He had the way of an entertainer about him; if not for being born into a dukedom, he’d have been a marvel on the stage. “Before you lament that I’ve not provided sufficient diversion, let us have music! I am so very pleased to announce that Miss Patricia Fletcher has agreed to play for us.”

Helen pressed up on her toes to see around the crush of people who were now all looking directly at the marquess…and her sister.

Fortunately, Patricia looked only slightly nervous, not as though she’d been bullied into anything. She was bravely attempting a smile as she curtseyed for the crowd, though she cut this a bit short as she hastened to the pianoforte. Moments later, very serviceable playing sounded out across the room, and Helen felt a rush of pride. Her shy little sister was being brave enough to show off her talents.

Around her, groups thinned and split as couples took to the makeshift floor to dance. Helen began to back away from the center of the room, making space in her own way when their host himself appeared before her.

“Miss Fletcher,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly, Helen thought. This was a man wearing a mask. “Do grant me the honor of our first dance, would you?”

She was surprised, even though he could scarcely have approached her for any other reason, not as footmen had sprung as if from thin air to remove extraneous furniture. A violin player had appeared via similar magic and was now effortlessly accompanying Patricia’s playing.

Helen corrected her previous assessment. This wasn’t purgatory; it was the faerie court.

But there was no time to dwell on the magic that money and influence could conjure, not when the Marquess of Featherston was waiting for an answer—and there was only one she could give.

“Of course,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. “It would be my honor.”

They found the requisite other couples for the quadrille that had begun playing, though each of those pairs was so engrossed in conversation with one another that they scarcely spared a glance for their host and his unconventional partner choice. Helen, too, tried not to pay attention lest she note that she was approximately seven ranks below everyone else in their little octet of dancers.

“So,” Lord Featherston said as they began moving through the steps. Patricia had played one of the slower quadrilles; under the marquess’ assessing eye, Helen couldn’t help but wish her sister had chosen something with a bit more pep in it. “You seem to have charmed my cousin quite fully.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said politely, stealing a glance at her feet. This wasn’t entirely obfuscation; this particular dance was on the newer side, and Helen was somewhat less practiced than she might have wished in the steps.

“Oh, come now,” the marquess said cajolingly. “Surely you know that the Duke of Godwin is my kinsman. There are many advantages to being from a famous family, but I daresay not needing to announce oneself is amongst them. And you cannot claim that you have not enjoyed Xander’s company; I saw the two of you talking quite amiably over dinner.”

Even hearing the duke’s given name felt almost scandalous, which she supposed was absurd, given all they’d done together. But when she glanced up, startled, at the marquess, the gleam in his eye said he’d intended her to be scandalized. He was toying with her. His playing had a lighter, less dangerous energy than that of his cousin, but it was there, nevertheless.

Kinsmen, indeed, she thought.

“We were seated together at dinner,” she said, letting her smile grow slightly absent as though she were a touch vapid. In her experience, gentlemen never expected women to be smarter than they seemed; this usually put them off the scent.

Ezra Swifton, alas, was not most gentlemen. She cursed the entire Lightholder line.

“Oh, I assure you,” he said grandly as they executed a particularly complicated series of handholds and steps, “my dear cousin is perfectly capable of sitting stonily with nothing but his ducal authority for company.”

Helen would have laughed at this were she not so determined not to rise to the marquess’ flirtatious bait.

“Perhaps he found the unconventional seating pattern refreshing,” she said mildly. “I am relatively new to the ton , but I’m sure it must grow tiresome, sitting near the same people over and over again, by virtue of rank. It was a clever choice on your part, my lord.”

If feigned stupidity didn’t distract him, certainly flattery would do so, wouldn’t it?

It would not.

“Oh, very well played, Miss Fletcher,” the marquess said with a low chuckle. “But no, I assure you; my cousin is determined to never find my antics—his word, I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear—amusing. Which means, alas, that I can only credit you with his good humor this evening. Brava, madam.”

When she opened her mouth to protest again, the marquess gave her a quelling look.

“And please don’t seek to deny any previous acquaintance, Miss Fletcher,” he said with exaggerated mildness. “As it was my cousin’s request that saw your family invited this evening. You’ll forgive me for saying as much—I find you a marvelous inclusion, and your sister is playing most admirably—but I had not previously thought to include you.”

He was flirting with the edge of rudeness. One didn’t outright mention differences in rank and social power. But he did so with such smoothness that the rudeness nearly didn’t register.

He was wily, she thought cautiously. He was trying to snare her…though she suspected that she was not the true prey he had in mind. No, she had a sense that he was using her to get information on the duke, though she could not imagine what his end goal was in doing so.

She found herself battling an intense flash of discomfort over this realization. She didn’t owe any loyalty to the duke, and she didn’t get the sense that Lord Featherston was seeking information to harm his cousin. No, he just seemed like the kind of man who was perpetually seeking knowledge for the sake of having it, storing it away like a woodland creature preparing for winter so that he would have a reliable stash at hand whenever it was required.

Such were the games of the ton . She didn’t like them over much, but they also didn’t tend to bother her as much as they did now.

Investigating why the marquess’ probing struck such a chord in her was subject for another time. Now, she merely paused just long enough that he would know her response was considered, not kneejerk.

“Well,” she said with aggressive, pointed neutrality. “You are kind for thinking of us.”

Lord Featherston’s smile split into a broader, clearly delighted grin just as the steps of the dance came to an end.

“Very well played, Miss Fletcher,” he said, bending low to press a kiss to the back of her gloved hand, then lingering until he flirted with the very edge of impropriety. “Very well played, indeed. Thank you ever so much for the dance. It was illuminating.”

When he stood back up to his full height, he wasn’t looking at her. When Helen followed his gaze, she met the intense, austere gaze of the Duke of Godwin in all his glory.

Temper simmered under Xander’s skin for the next hour as he struggled to find himself once again at Helen’s side without letting it seem as though he were trying to situate himself close to her.

He needed to speak with her. That was why he was so agitated. He wanted to know what Ezra had said about him, what Helen had said in return. He wasn’t afraid of his cousin, nothing of the sort—Ezra respected the bounds of familial loyalty. But his younger cousin did have a tendency to buzz like an irritating little gnat when he wanted to, and it was always best to know what Ezra knew before his buzz could become a sting.

That was why he wanted to speak to Helen. Just that.

It was only when the dancing ended, and the guests filtered between the parlor and the smoking room, the crowd thinning out a bit, that Xander managed to find himself again at her side.

“What did you say to my cousin?” he demanded.

She paused pointedly. “Oh, you again,” she said brightly, as though she’d just noticed him there. “How good to see you again.”

“Enough,” he gritted out. “What did you say to my cousin?”

“I thought dukes were meant to be solicitous of young ladies,” she sighed. “It’s so dreadful what turns out to be mere fiction in life, is it not?”

“Helen.”

This got her attention.

“Shush,” she scolded. “You cannot use my name in company—you shouldn’t be using it at all!” she tacked on hastily. “But fine. If we’re back to this—” She waved a hand. “—way of yours, so be it. I told him nothing. He said we seemed to enjoy talking; I demurred. He said you had us invited; I demurred again. He invoked the word ‘antics,’ and I—well. I’ll leave you to guess what I did.”

This should have reassured Xander. His little rabbit was no liar.

His shoulders remained as stiff as ever.

“He kissed your hand,” he growled.

The look she gave him was deeply, intensely incredulous.

“He’s a flirt,” she said as if he should already know this—and indeed he did.

That, he thought in a flash of inspiration, was the problem. Ezra was a flirt but not likely to end up married any time soon. He would distract Miss Fletcher from her purpose. Yes. That was why he was so cross.

“Yes,” he agreed. “You should stay away from him.”

“Although,” she mused, actually tapping her chin to punctuate how very deep in thought she was pretending to be. “The marquess is a sufficiently high rank. He has a fortune. He’s not old, he doesn’t live in the North, and—” She paused on the brink of triumph. “—he isn’t French. Perhaps he’s a fine candidate for me, after all!”

“He isn’t.” Why was Xander suddenly possessed with the desire to punch his cousin in the face?

Helen’s combined wide eyes and innocent blinking were really a bridge too far. She was apparently enjoying herself.

“But Your Grace,” she said in a voice that he thought was meant to imitate a blushing debutante; it was not a good impression. “We could be family .”

Xander clenched his fists so hard that the motion threatened the seams of his well-tailored gloves.

“No,” he said, the word little more than a growl.

Her innocent act continued for a heartbeat more, and then she seemed to realize how deadly serious he was, and her expression shadowed.

“I am starting to think,” she said in a low voice, “that you do not intend to help me at all. That you are taking advantage of our bargain.”

This accusation filled Xander with a different flavor of anger until his temper was a swirling, chaotic mess inside him.

“Do not accuse me of dishonor,” he commanded. “My cousin is more dangerous than he seems. You will stay away from him. Am I clear?”

She narrowed her eyes, though she seemed to sense that it was wiser to keep away from outright defiance.

“If you wish me to think you honorable,” she said, “show yourself worthy. I will stay away from your cousin, but we must make progress.” A blink and her ferocity was replaced by concern. Another blink, and she wore a smoothly neutral expression. “I seek a husband before the end of the Season. Time runs short. We must progress.”

At the beginning of this arrangement, he’d not asked any questions because, honestly, he hadn’t cared why Miss Helen Fletcher sought a husband. She was a young lady. That was what young ladies did. If he could get something for himself in the bargain, helping her was a deal well worth making.

Later, he hadn’t asked any questions because, by that point, he’d met her cousin. Xander would want to get away from George Fletcher, too, given the slightest chance.

But now he was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t more to it, if there wasn’t some other concern lurking beneath Helen’s insistent search for a spouse.

“Miss Fletcher,” he began, only to be interrupted by his sister at his arm.

“Xander,” Kitty said, tugging at him. He glanced at her and then back, not certain if he wanted to introduce Helen or not—his sister was a powerful social ally, but Xander didn’t need more of his family making connections between himself and the Northern nobody—but she was already gone.

“Xander,” Catherine said again, tone impatient. “You promised to dance with Ari. She’d already danced with three others—we should be quite proud of her—but that does not mean you can renege on your promise.”

“Yes, of course,” Xander said, shaking off whatever madness Miss Fletcher always seemed to throw over him like a net. He should be focusing on his family, not on some other woman, no matter how appealing she was. Family was what mattered. Family, his dukedom, his name. Nothing else.

“Show me the way,” he told his sister. She led him to where Ariadne waited, looking slightly more confident than she had earlier, and he guided his younger sister through a country reel.

He did not allow himself to look for Helen for the entirety of the dance. When he could no longer resist, he could not find her, nor did he see even a glimpse of her chestnut hair for the remainder of the evening.

Instead, he found Ezra.

Who immediately lit up with the smarmiest bloody grin that Xander had ever seen on a man in his life . He seized his cousin by the arm and dragged him in the direction of the study.

Xander was broader in the shoulders than slender Ezra, with his perfectly fashionable lines, but they were both tall, and Xander could feel the whiplike cords of his cousin’s muscles even beneath the fine wool of his evening jacket. Ezra was being pulled, these muscles said, because he allowed himself to be pulled, not because Xander could menace him.

This irritated Xander more than it should. He’d never thrashed Ezra, not in the way he’d done when sparring with his cousins Hugh or Aaron, who were closer to him in age. By the time Ezra was old enough to get into the kind of scrapes that boys got into with their brothers and cousins, Xander was too old to do the same.

He regretted that now. If he’d ever met someone who needed to lose a fight, it was his cousin Ezra.

Indeed, as they reached the study and Xander slammed the door behind them, Ezra still wore that same delighted grin, entirely unconcerned about the steaming anger that came off Xander.

“My, my, cousin,” Ezra said, making a grand show of dusting off his sleeve when Xander finally released him. “Did you wish to speak to me? You might have merely said so, you know.”

Xander was in no mood for games.

“Stay away from Helen Fletcher,” he ordered, stabbing a finger in Ezra’s face.

Ezra, damn him, did not flinch back. Instead, he merely blinked indolently at Xander’s finger, then cast a wry look up at his cousin’s face.

“I don’t see why I should,” he said, leaning back against the bookshelf behind him and crossing his legs, the very picture of nonchalance. “I quite liked the elder Miss Fletcher. She’s…feisty.”

He made the word sound suggestive. Xander’s blood boiled.

“Enough,” he snapped. “You have your games, Ezra, and we’ve all tolerated them. But Miss Fletcher is a respectable woman, and she is seeking a match. You will not ruin her chances; you will not allow your name to be spoken in the same breath as hers. And if I hear otherwise, you shall have me to contend with, am I clear?”

Ezra stuffed his hands in his pockets, then lazily surveyed his cousin. Whatever he saw in Xander’s expression made his playful, insinuating look disappear, replaced by something that almost looked…tender. Familial. Fond.

“Xan,” he said quietly, and Xander was, at once, transported back to when they were children, Ezra just learning how to speak, Xander feeling oh so big and grown as he taught the little boy how to shoot marbles…and rescued him, once or twice, from sticking the little balls of stone into his mouth or, worse, up his nose. Ezra had always used the shortened version of Xander’s nickname back then.

Now, the sensation of tenderness that came over Xander was like a bruise, one that he couldn’t resist poking. The worst of his anger went out of him in a burst.

He turned away from Ezra, massaging his temples.

“Just leave her be, all right? She’s not your kind of girl.”

“If you’re this far gone, Xander,” Ezra said in a manner that reminded Xander strangely of Catherine, “you need to make a decision about how you’re going to proceed.”

“I’m not—” He cut himself off. The comment didn’t even deserve a protest. “Just leave her be,” he repeated.

There was a long stretch of silence in which Xander did not dare turn back to look at his cousin’s face. He’d hate himself for the cowardice later, he knew. But Ezra was family—who else could madden Xander so effectively? And thus, this small bit of weakness could be forgiven, couldn’t it?

“Very well,” Ezra said at long last. “I’ll leave her be. But Xan… Maybe you need to consider if you oughtn’t leave her be, as well.”

Xander didn’t have anything to say to that. He wouldn’t leave her alone. He couldn’t. He’d made a deal .

But he couldn’t tell his cousin that, either. So, he left without a word, as if Ezra’s parting comment meant nothing to him.

Even so, he found sleep evaded him that night as he heard his cousin’s words repeating endlessly in his head.