Chapter 8
Eight
My Lord Duke Nithesdale,
You will find a most unkind caricature in the gossip rags this week of my latest visit to your home, and for that I am truly sorry. I cannot erase the disgraceful image of my widow’s weeds thrown up over my shoulders while seated upon your lap in the midst of your great hall. The fact that I can write about it suggests a certain depravity on my part as well.
I do hope my cousin is not harmed by our actions. An unmarried miss of ten-and-nine is at a very impressionable age, and I fear my visits to your home may have an adverse effect upon her reputation. I will await your reply before I return to Caerlaverock.
Yours,
Lady Drake
—A letter from Lady Phoebe Drake to Edward Charles Hancock, Duke of Nithesdale, January 1808
“S he’s a rare beauty.”
Nash looked up from the book he was attempting to read in Nithesdale’s study. “I beg your pardon?”
Lady Drake strode into the room, once again as if she were the duchess of this castle and not Miss Blair. Blast it. He had to stop thinking of Iseabail as a young miss. She was a duchess, and not just any duchess, she was Nithesdale’s duchess. No matter how many times he told himself otherwise.
“Her Grace. She is nothing like the other ladies of the Ton.”
He nearly scoffed. She was like every other lady of the Ton who was married to a man her father’s age. She wanted excitement she couldn’t have. She wanted to enjoy the touch of a man who wasn’t hers. Plain and simply put, she wanted to live a life she never would. Yet somehow her plight meant more to him than the circumstances of all the other ladies of his acquaintance.
“No, she isn’t,” he replied. She wouldn’t be here, if it weren’t for him. “And what of you, Lady Drake?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Are you like other ladies of the Ton … bitter about your lot in life? Determined to see other women as miserable as you?”
She sucked in a harsh breath. “Iseabail is a duchess. I hardly think that to be a hardship.”
“Yet she is married to a man who is old enough to be her father. I’m not sure she would have accepted Nithesdale’s suit without your assistance with her ruination. Has life been so unpleasant you’d wish this life on a young woman, or were you driven by your own attraction toward Iseabail?”
Blotches stained her cheeks red. “How dare you, sir!”
“It’s Your Grace to you.”
She laughed and her demeanor changed. Instead of being insulted, she appeared to actually enjoy his ire. “Yet here you sit using the Duchess’s Christian name as if you were intimately acquainted.”
He scowled and took a drink of his Scotch before he said something he’d regret.
“Nithesdale said you would come riding in on your white horse. Is it your intent to rescue her?” Lady Drake eyed him in a manner that led him to believe she truly did hope he’d run off with the young duchess.
Yet neither he nor Iseabail were in a position to seek the other out, regardless of what had occurred between them in the garden. No, Iseabail was forever off-limits, and that was the reason behind this obsession.
“You must help her.” Lady Drake implored.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Duchess. She will be in need of your assistance when she goes to London.” Lady Drake poured a cup of tea, and Nash put up his hand in refusal when she offered it to him.
“What makes you think she will head for London?” He asked.
“Nithesdale wants her there.”
He muttered a curse under his breath before asking, “Does she do everything Nithesdale wants?” His mind went to places it shouldn’t.
“Yes. She is an ever-dutiful wife.”
Dutiful. The images coursing through his mind were of a dutiful mistress, not a wife. Damnation. “Many wives in the Ton are dutiful. That does not mean they do everything their husbands want them to do.”
“Your Grace, the Duchess of Nithesdale will carry out her husband’s requests, no matter what they are—of that you can be assured.” Her gaze met his straight on, and then she blushed before she turned away.
Had he imagined her embarrassment?
“I don’t think you give her enough credit. Her Grace is stronger than you believe.” The woman who had kissed him in the garden was bold beyond his wildest dreams. Hell, before that moment he hadn’t been aware of his wildest dreams. Now he didn’t seem to be able to get them out of his head.
Before she could respond, Mr. Forrester entered the room and then paused. “I hope I’m not interrupt?—”
“Not at all,” Lady Drake replied, before the man even finished his sentence.
An awkward silence befell the room, and it seemed the perfect time for him to escape. This hell was more than he could swallow. If Nithesdale didn’t see him soon …
“I believe I will go for a ride.” Nash stood up and bowed toward the woman he’d thought he’d known up until ten days ago. This creature, however, was entirely different from the demur widow to make his acquaintance in London years ago.
Lady Drake smiled. “The weather is exceptionally nice for this time of year. In fact, I believe Paddington told the stables to have your mount readied for you.”
Nash’s foot caught on the edge of the rug. “Excuse me?”
“The stable boy is getting your mount ready as we speak,” Forrester added.
Nash went to the window. “I found that poor creature tied up in the woods and under attack by a pack of wild dogs. For the past three years, my groom and I have been the only two people on earth who could approach the beast.”
That was the very last thing he wanted to hear. His horse had finally made it from the posting inn the previous afternoon, with strict instructions for his groom to be the only one to handle the stallion. Tyr was not a common horse. Like his namesake, the Germanic god of war, Tyr could be brutal, and the sight in front of him was the last thing he wanted to see.
“Dash it all.” Nash ran for the stables. Death was knocking on more than one of the Duke’s doors.
* * *
Gazing out across the gardens from her bedroom window was the best part of being a duchess. It was here, when her maid wasn’t present, she could open the glass and absorb the tranquility of Caerlaverock. From her first day at the estate, she’d adored the landscape that was so different from the blustery winds on the Highland lochs. The salt brine of the sea was evident on the breeze. From her old room on the second level, the dense, dark-green forest had blocked her view. From the Duchess’s chamber on the third floor, however, she had a view of the deep azure sea.
Her breath hitched as she caught sight of Ross racing through the garden and taking off his clothes. He was taking off his clothes.
What the devil was the man up to?
His jacket landed on a bush, his waist coat—the garden path, and his cravat—well she wasn’t sure where it landed. She was too busy watching the muscles of his body tighten and flex with every long stride he took. The only items of clothing he wore were his trousers, a white lawn shirt, and boots.
The wind whipped at his shirt, making it mold to the rippling muscles across his abdomen. His defined chest put the Farnese Hercules to shame, and she imagined him posing in the same manner as the famous nude statue. Nithesdale had commissioned a replica to be sculpted in the garden when she was fifteen, but she’d been forbidden to enter until she was nearly eighteen, only to be disappointed by the artfully designed topiary hiding everything below Heracles’s waist. She had admired the Greek god’s musculature, but to date, she had never gained the nerve to peek behind the bushes. Partly out of fear that he would be vastly disappointing, but mostly because she had never seen a man of that particular form and didn’t want to feed her girlhood fantasies further. At least she had not seen a torso like Heracles … until now. She bit her lip in anticipation of the Duke exposing what the garden had not, and found herself a bit disappointed when his shirt didn’t join the rest of his clothing.
The thought made her cheeks heat until the sound of an angered horse drew her attention away from the Duke. A large black horse she’d never seen before jerked at the reins held by the youngest stablehand. Bundled in a coat too large for his small frame, Benjamin pulled on the reins as the horse tried to take control of his head. Tightening his grip, Benjamin strained and dug his heels into the ground. The Duke began to run faster toward the bold and violent horse.
Unlike her husband, most members of the Ton had no use for children getting in their way, and Iseabail knew how callously this particular Duke had treated six young orphans. Would he abuse the stablemaster’s son as well?
He yelled something unintelligible from where she stood at the window, and her breath hitched. He was going to punish the boy, and she could do nothing but watch in horror.
The more Benjamin struggled, the more the horse resisted, its sable mane and tail flashing in the wind. The beast raised on his hind legs and froze, posing for anyone and everyone to admire his great beauty, strength, and devilish temper. Raven-colored hooves pawed at the air as if the hounds of hell pulled on its reins, and not the scrawny, young Benjamin. The boy lurched forward and stumbled again, before falling to the ground, directly beneath the angry hooves.
Iseabail gasped. “No!”
She watched in horror as Ross ran for the horse—she was too far away to do anything to protect the boy, too invested in his welfare to look away. Benjamin scrambled backward on his hands and feet like a petrified crab in the sand. His large brown eyes mirrored the terror in his soul. At the last moment, he raised his hands to cover his face, accepting the inevitable.
But then he was there. Covering Benjamin’s body with his own. Ross threw his body over the top of the boy just in time to take the brutal onslaught. His arms braced on the ground as his body shook from each blow of a hoof. The horse calmed almost instantly. If she hadn’t seen it, she wouldn’t have believed such a change could occur in the animal. She watched as the Duke rolled off to the side and sat with his elbows hung over his knees, his head bent low between his legs. Finally, he turned his head toward Benjamin and ruffled the boy’s hair, a smile breaking out on both their faces.
The Duke of Ross had ruffled the boy’s hair?—
—With genuine affection and a smile on his lips. Then he turned toward the horse, who’d sauntered up to him in a gesture of contrition, and the Duke rubbed the animal’s nose from where he sat in the dirt. Not a breath of anger toward boy or beast.
Benjamin was the first to stand, the Duke’s movements a bit slower. It was only then that she saw how badly he’d been hurt. The back of his shirt was torn and covered with streaks of mud and blood. The bare bronzed skin peeking through the shredded fabric was splashed with red, the stains growing in size on the tattered shirt.
The Duke’s groom came running from the stable, and a serious conversation ensued between the three of them before Ross turned toward the house and looked up directly into her window. Their gazes held. Something tense and charged passed through her. Her body tingling in a manner it had never done before—until he tripped—over nothing. Her breath hitched as he fell to his knees and slowly got up again. He was hiding much more than Benjamin or the groom had known. Seeing that put her feet into motion.
Iseabail ran for her door and threw it open nearly barreling into her new maid. “Mary! Hurry there’s been an accident near the stables. Have Mrs. Hagerty prepare her salve and get me clean water and cloths. Meet me in the drawing room and then tell the doctor the Duke of Ross needs him at once. Hurry!”
Mary didn’t hesitate. She scurried down the servants’ stairs, moving as fast as she could, as Iseabail hiked up her skirts and took the main stairway to the front door. “Paddington open the doors!” The butler scurried toward the door and just as she was about to run through, a large frame blocked the doorway. Iseabail slid across the floor attempting to avoid a collision, her satin slippers failing to gain purchase as Ross entered the house. She collided with his rock-hard chest. Her body pressed to his in a manner more intimate than any waltz, her heart pounding to the rhythm of a drum only a woman would understand.
Yet she didn’t understand her reaction to this man at all. Her visceral response was undeniable as her gaze snagged on the open collar of his shirt. The dark hairs curled in a fashion she had never seen before, peeking out where the buttons lay undone. The strong sinew of masculine power evident in his clavicle that was only made more prominent by the corded muscles traveling down the column of his neck. Perhaps it was his large, strong hands gripping her biceps, pinning her body close to his.
“Your Grace, I … I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft and breathless, as if she had been the one to save a child and tame a beast while sustaining serious injury.
She stumbled backward. Brushing at her skirts and turning toward Paddington and the two footmen who looked on as if they didn’t know what she could possibly do next to make this moment more awkward. It was the slight nod and knowing look from Paddington that reminded her of her station. This was her house. Her servants. Her guest.
She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, are you all right?”
His gaze bore into hers before he took a deep breath and bowed over her hand. “I must apologize for my appearance.” His eyes never left hers as his lips brushed bare knuckles she’d forgotten to cover. The touch was too much. Soft and gentle, everything Ross was not. She could almost get lost in the connection between them and forget the past …
Beyond his dark, wind-blown curls, she caught sight of the dirtied frayed shirt marred with blood as he bowed in front of her. One of the footmen gasped, his eyes glued to the Duke’s back as he stepped forward. “Your Grace … would you like the doctor?”
It was her turn to be horrified. Ross was adhering to social etiquette while standing before her needing a doctor. She gripped his hand, pulling him forward. “Please, Your Grace, you must rest. I saw … what happened.” Her gaze traveled to the smudges of dirt on broad, squared shoulders, the wrinkles spreading across the front of his shirt telling the story. He’d clutched Benjamin close to protect him from pounding hooves.
Her mind replayed the violent attack and the protective nature of the man in front of her. It was as if two different men stood before her—the villain of her childhood, and the hero who’d put his life on the line to save a young servant. “If you’ll come into the drawing room, the doctor will be here shortly.”
“That’s not necessary. My valet can attend me.”
“Is your valet a physician?” She refused to let go of his hand, but instead of allowing her to pull him into her drawing room, he guided her toward the steps she’d recently descended.
“Better.”
“I doubt that.”
“You doubt my word?” His brows furrowed as he took her hand and wrapped it around his forearm, the heat radiating off his muscled arm as if the dense appendage she was gripping was a heated brick. Had she ever noticed a forearm such as his? Her husband certainly didn’t sport an arm of near solid proportions, and she couldn’t say she’d noticed Mr. Forrester radiating such a fierce masculinity either.
“I doubt your valet has the same level of expertise as Dr. Wakefield,” she said, now walking up the stairs side by side with the demon from her childhood. Could a person’s character change so drastically?
She heard Mary in the entry way below. “This way, Mary.” They ascended to the floor of her own bedchamber and was shocked to find Ross had been placed in the bedroom next to her own.
He stopped in front of the door. “I think Daniel can take it from here,” he stated.
Something in her demanded she meet this Daniel, valet extraordinaire. “Nonsense. You are our guest. I will ensure you receive the proper care after you so valiantly saved our young Benjamin.” She twisted the door handle and entered his room as if it were her own. A man with red hair the color of the sunset in fall was sitting in front of the window polishing a pair of the Duke’s boots and jumped to his feet. Deep-blue eyes looked from her to the Duke.
“His Grace has been injured. The doctor is on his way.”
The valet looked to the Duke for instructions, but the stubborn man only rolled his eyes before admitting, “I will need assistance removing my shirt and cleaning the wounds on my back.” Then Ross took her by the arm and guided her back to the hall. He released her arm and stepped back into his room, and his valet closed the door in her face.
She should have been affronted by the move … instead, she returned to her own room and closed the door on her tumultuous thoughts that perhaps her young self had misinterpreted. The Duke of Ross was a more complicated man than she could have dreamed.