Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1) (29 page)

And then, at best, she would be ruined for her association with the American captain — traveling without a proper escort, even on a ship she owned, while engaging in a sea battle went beyond the pale of what most members of society would accept. At worst, she’d be hung for privateering. Thorington neither knew nor cared about naval law, but she was a British citizen — and owning a fleet of privateers operating against the British Navy seemed dangerously close to treason.

He shoved the papers into the messenger’s hands. “Take these to my room and hide them under the mattress. And sleep well tonight. You’ll need to return to London in the morning.”

The man didn’t make any sign of protest, beyond an infinitesimal sigh that Thorington didn’t begrudge.

Thorington strode from the room. With each step, he revised his plan.

The ballroom, when he found it, no longer looked impressive. He saw bloodthirsty jackals instead of cavalry officers, cruel harpies instead of innocuous ladies. Smiling strangers could turn to lynch mobs in a heartbeat. The fact that they wore jewels instead of homespun made them no less vicious.

And then, off to the side, he saw her again. She sipped her lemonade, seeming to give only half an ear to her would-be suitor.

Already she was fading. Callista, with the name of a nymph and the heart of an empress, never should have worn that despondent look.

His hand clenched at his side. He should stay true to his original plan. He had nothing to offer her — no money, no heart, no happiness. All he could give her was the power of his title.

As his duchess, no one would dare bring treason charges against her. No one would dare to whisper that his wife had been compromised. If it was clear he had her well in hand, he could save her.

The ballroom slipped away. In his mind he stood on the steps of Thorington House, nineteen again, with Anthony crying in his arms. Portia and Serena, still unsteady on their little feet, clung to his legs, wide-eyed and silent. Rafe was away at school and Cynthia and Pamela were visiting the shops with their governess — a fact all three would come to bitterly regret.

Their mother wore unrelenting black, with heavy veils swathing her face. The bruises underneath would be unrelenting, too. His father, the Duke of Thorington, was red with fury, his anger overlaying his usually florid complexion to turn him into something that might have been a caricature.

Gavin squeezed Anthony, jostling him to stop the crying.

“I won’t accept the next one,” his father vowed. “The girls were one thing, but if this poet’s whelp inherits I’ll never forgive you. If you get a bastard in Italy, you can keep him.”

His mother’s back was stiff. The pleading, which Gavin had heard from his shameful eavesdropping, had stopped an hour ago. Now she vibrated with the same rage that fueled his father. “The way you keep your bastards? All those Johns and Marys are bleeding us dry.”

It was the first Gavin had heard of them — but not the last, since he would go on to pay their allowances forever.

His father didn’t deny it. But he looked confused, as though he had never considered them relevant. “I never dishonored you.”

She laughed. The bitterness settled over Gavin like cloud of dust, one he wouldn’t be able to wash away later. “If you had ever loved me, you wouldn’t have left me to find my own happiness.”

“If I ever loved you?” The duke’s fist clenched. “I loved you more than you ever accepted. But you were always too enamored with others to see it. Now get in the carriage.”

Gavin didn’t think, at first, that she would do it. In his earliest memories, his parents had fought. They always raged at each other — sometimes for minutes, sometimes for days. Then his father would stay at his club for awhile, or his mother would take them all to the country.

But they always came back together. And those times, whether they lasted hours or weeks, were always perfect.

“Come give Mama a kiss, children,” she said.

Gavin wasn’t a child anymore. But he offered Anthony up to her. He heard something that sounded like it might have been a sob, but she brushed her veiled lips over Anthony’s forehead. Then she knelt to kiss Portia and Serena. Portia was too young to understand, but Serena had seen her mother leave before. She flung herself into the duchess’s arms, sobbing when the duke inevitably pried her away.

And then their mother turned to Gavin. “Promise me you will protect them,” she said.

He nodded automatically, not knowing what it meant — not realizing, at the time, that it was a vow for life.

He thought she would be back within a month. “Safe travels, Mother.”

She squeezed his hand. “Be a good man, Gavin. I hope you will be.”

But she failed to extract a promise from him on that score.

The carriage door closed behind her. The girls couldn’t see her, but Gavin was tall enough to see her slump against the seat. He realized, then, that this time might be different — that this time she might not come back.

That realization left him stunned. When his voice came back, it was too late to say anything. The carriage had disappeared around the corner, carrying her away.

He couldn’t save her. And when he inherited five years later, it was too late. She was on her deathbed from consumption in some squalid village in France. All he could do was bring back her corpse.

But he could save Callista.

He unclenched his fist. He took a breath, becoming the duke again. He locked his heart away. This was about protection, not emotion. The vow he’d made to protect her, not something so frivolous as how she felt in his arms.

Love couldn’t save her. But power could.

And Thorington would be damned before he saw her ruined by anyone but him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Her latest suitor — she didn’t remember his name — brought her yet another lemonade.

She would rather have whisky.

She drank it anyway. She couldn’t lure one of these proper gentlemen into marriage if she drank whisky in public.

“How are you finding Devon, Miss Briarley?” he asked.

It was the question they all asked. “Overcrowded at the moment,” she said.

His laugh sounded startled. He didn’t seem to know how to respond, so he sipped his lemonade instead.

Her annoyance grew. It wasn’t his fault that she was annoyed. He hadn’t done anything wrong, save for standing in her vicinity when she wanted complete solitude.

Thorington hadn’t come to her. He had avoided her all day. Even when she could force her mind to forget him — talking to Madeleine and Prudence, walking with Serena and Portia, dressing for the ball — her body, with its odd aches and subtle bruises, would remind her of him.

But he didn’t seem to remember her at all. She’d spotted him immediately when she’d entered the ballroom. He had ignored her, though. And then he had left within minutes, as though he couldn’t even breathe the same air as her.

It was for the best. She shouldn’t want to see him. He would only break her heart. And she’d stolen his ships, after all.

The longer he ignored her, the happier that knowledge made her.

She eyed the other dancers. It was easy enough to find her friends in the crowd. A waltz was about to begin, and Prudence and Madeleine were pairing off with their husbands. Serena had abandoned the young man Callie had seen her with earlier and was deep in conversation with Rafe. But Rafe didn’t look at her as she spoke — his gaze wandered over the crowd until it settled on someone else.

Callie looked in the direction that he did. Octavia was standing off to the side, shockingly arrayed in purple silk that displayed every curve. And she was similarly ignoring Portia, who had left her group of cavalry officers to talk to Octavia.

Callie didn’t have time to consider whether it was coincidence or coordination. Her gaze had skipped over Lucretia, but some niggling observation brought her back. Lucretia stood amongst the dancers with a man in the blue coat of the British Navy. He looked oddly familiar, but Callie didn’t think she’d met him before. Was Lucretia making good on her threat to cause trouble?

That concern was forgotten when a shadow fell over her. She looked up and found Thorington standing before her.

His coat was an inky midnight blue, cut so perfectly that any observer could see that his broad shoulders owed nothing to a tailor’s skill. His hair fell over his brow more artfully than usual — more like fingers had recently run through it than anything his valet might have encouraged. He smiled at her, and she returned it instinctively — but when she looked into his eyes she saw nothing but shadows.

“Miss Briarley,” he murmured.

“Sirrah,” she said coolly.

Next to her, her nameless companion gasped. She ignored him. Thorington took her lemonade and shoved it into the man’s hand. “I believe I have this dance,” he said.

“Actually,” the man started to say.

Thorington looked at him.

He backed away with a bow. “Of course, your grace.”

“And if I don’t wish to dance with you?” she said.

His teeth flashed. “I’ve come to dance with you, not murder you. Will you give me the honor of a waltz?”

She considered him. There was something she didn’t trust in his eyes — something hard. Commanding. No sign of anything they had shared over the past week. No sign that he even remembered the night before.

But she was so very bored. She gave him her hand. For a moment, as their fingers touched, he looked vulnerable. She thought he might apologize…

Instead, he bowed. “Your willingness humbles me.”

“Do not make me regret it,” she said.

He pulled her into the dance. The musicians were quite talented, making it even easier to sink into his embrace. His hand settled on her waist, pulling her so close that she couldn’t tell where protectiveness ended and possessiveness began. They must have made a charming picture — navy and cerulean matched against each other, their gazes locked.

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Briarley,” he said.

After the day he’d spent ignoring her, the compliment was nearly as infuriating as it was exciting. “Are you surprised?”

“No. Although I look forward to seeing you in dresses made for you. Your London modiste has arrived in the village. She will call on you in the morning.”

Callie frowned. “You have a strange way of showing your regard, sirrah. I’ve heard nothing from you since our…last lesson.”

She shouldn’t have said it. She’d made such an attempt the previous night to pretend she didn’t care at all. A statement like that would give her away. But her skin felt prickly, and she ached to hurt him.

She shouldn’t love him — but she was proud enough that she couldn’t bear to be ignored.

Those shadows were back in his eyes. “Busy, you know. But your duchess lessons will start again tomorrow.”

She wished she had kept her lemonade. She wanted something to throw in his face. But she smiled as though it was all a grand jest. “Of course. We can also discuss who I might look to marry, since your family has failed me.”

He sighed. “Shall we enjoy our dance before discussing business? If I recall, we are quite well matched for that, at least.”

She recalled it, too. It made her want to leave him on the floor. But that would start gossip she wasn’t sure she could live down.

So she gave herself up to the dance. They swirled around the room. She slowly forgot that this was Thorington — that this was a business relationship, not a courtship. As the music continued, Maidenstone became a fantasy around them. She could pretend that she was mistress of it, that she could command the musicians to play all night, that she could dance with Thorington — Gavin — as her only consort.

That fantasy was more real for her than the reality. She didn’t want to consider losing Maidenstone. She also didn’t want to consider winning it with some nameless fool at her side.

But when the music stopped, she had to wake up.

Gavin looked down at her with an odd, sad smile. “Thank you, Miss Briarley.”

It sounded like he was saying goodbye to her.

“Was there business you wished to discuss?” she asked. She didn’t want to, but it was better than letting him walk away.

His smile disappeared. He hesitated, long enough that she guessed he wanted to say something momentous.

“Will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

Her mouth opened.

“Say yes,” he ordered, when she still couldn’t speak. “It will make everything easier.”

Nothing in his tone said anything of love. She was stupid enough to be disappointed. She took a breath. She was dealing with Thorington, not Gavin. And she had to have all her wits about her.

“Will it be easier for you? Or me?” she asked.

“Both.” He pulled her out of the way of the cotillion beginning to form, brushing aside a man who tried to ask her to dance. When they had some semblance of privacy again, he said, “You need me more than you need Anthony. And I have reconsidered my decision to sell him to you.”

Still a business arrangement. She shook her head. “We’ve already established that Anthony won’t have me. And you’ll never let me have my way. Why would I take that bargain instead of finding an easier match?”

“You deserve an equal, not a lapdog.”

For just a moment, his façade cracked. What he wasn’t saying spilled through the chinks in his armor — some conviction about what they could be together.

And she wanted to believe it. But if this was a business match, she needed to let her head rule. Unlike her Briarley heart, which knew the answer, her head needed time.

“I must weigh whether what you offer is worth the risk,” she said. “Can I have a week to consider?”

His jaw firmed. “You should be accustomed to risk,” he said. Here his voice turned silky, almost menacing. “After all, you stole
Crescendo
, did you not?”

That was more of a shock than his marriage proposal. “I beg your pardon?”

“
Crescendo
. It’s a ship. Formerly mine, currently the ocean’s, if reports of its scuttling are correct.”