The Duke's Deceit

Richard, Duke of Avalon, was struck by two very disparate emotions as he stared down into the perfect oval that was his fiancée’s face.

The first evoked a sharp pain in the region of his heart. Even after eighteen months the memory of his father’s death could wash over him in a numbing wave of grief. Always, he missed that source of strength and gentle wisdom. He would never be truly comfortable as “Your Grace”, instead of as the plain Marquis of Longford.

The second was stinging self-mockery as he recalled the words his delightful sister-in-law, Serena, had once flung at him. “It is my fondest wish that when your tiny heart is finally given, the lady crumbles it to dust.” There was no danger that his betrothed could perform such a feat for she did not now, nor would she ever, possess his heart.

“Avalon, don’t you dare to give me that mocking smile in the very midst of Lady Norton’s ball!” His betrothed forgot herself so far as to stomp her slippered foot. As usual, Lady Arabella Hampton’s beauty was marred by a pout. His cronies, and the haut monde in general, found this habit charming. After all, such an incomparable should expect to have the world and all at her feet.

But he was beginning to find it irritating.

“Bella, if you stomp your slipper again, the entire room will know we are feuding,” he drawled, lowering his lids to mere slits.

She fanned herself heatedly with a delicate yellow bit of whimsy painted with blue forget-me-nots.

“No one heard me.” Thrusting up her chin she glared at him. “Everyone else is enjoying themselves! But you have not danced with me once this evening!”

Shrugging, he turned away to gaze lazily at the whirling mass in the ballroom. Candlelight caught the blaze of jewels at throats, earlobes, and wrists, sending twinkling light to bounce against the dim walls. The press of bodies was so great it was difficult to determine where one person ended and the other began. There was not one tiny space free.

This frantic effort had always bored him. But duty was duty, and could not be ignored, now that he was the duke. So against his mother’s wishes, and his own inclination, he had thrown himself into the social season, determined to find a wife. The succession must be secured. And at five-and-thirty it was time he was setting up his nursery. After all, his brother had wed just such a chit, and it had turned into quite a match—she was a woman to reckon with.

He relented slightly. “If you’re bored, my dear, by all means let us take our leave,” he teased, preparing to do the pretty and escort her in the next waltz.

“Yes, let us depart at once!” she snapped back.

At last she had surprised him. He gave a bark of genuine laughter. “Odds fish, Bella! I’ve never known you to leave a squeeze like this before dawn.”

“Well, you have managed to give me a headache,” she pouted. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself!” With her chin thrust to the ceiling, she abandoned him to cross the room, a trail of eyes following her.

Dutifully, he followed in her wake.

Her cheeks flushed, she bade Lady Norton farewell. Standing just so as to catch the candlelight gleaming in her golden curls, she appeared every inch a future duchess. At first her pets and starts had been amusing; now, he was beginning to wonder if there was aught beneath. He was in too deep, no matter his decision. A betrothal was a pledge that he could never break.

Smiling and nodding graciously to the crowd gathered at the curb, Arabella descended the front steps. He was about to reassure himself about his choice—she would play the role of duchess to the nines—when she spoiled the picture by turning to hiss at him.

“I hope at the Duchess of Cumberland’s Grand Ball you are more the thing, Avalon.”

He waited until they were in the coach before answering. In truth, the idea came to him at just that moment. “I shan’t be there, my dear.”

“Whatever do you mean?” There was nothing ducal about the shriek she uttered, plainly audible to all gathered about the barouche, whose top had been collapsed due to the unseasonably fine weather they were experiencing.

“I plan to leave for Scotland tomorrow. There is a professor of philosophy at the University of Edinburgh I’ve long been interested in meeting.” Warming to this new idea he flicked the tip of her nose with one finger. “Don’t fret, Bella, I’ll return before the wedding.”

“Before the wedding!” she gasped, both hands fluttering to her heaving bosom. “What of the Duchess of Cumberland’s? It is the most important event of the season.”

“Surely not?” He couldn’t resist lifting his eyebrow in disdain.

“Just because we are betrothed does not mean you can ignore me, my lord.” Her voice rose with each word.

“Not even
I
can get to Edinburgh and back within a fortnight, Bella. Even on my wildest stallion.” Eager to be on his way, he tapped the coachman’s arm. “No doubt one of your court will be happy to stand in my place.”

Unaccountably the coach remained in place, directly before the entrance and under the
torchères
.

“If you do not escort me to the Duchess of Cumberland’s Grand Ball, I shall cry off from this marriage. Do you hear me?” She issued her challenge in her most formidable tone, no doubt cultivated to bring the most erring of suitors into line.

“Not only do I hear you,” he drawled sarcastically, “but so does half the
ton
.”

Her pale blue eyes widened in horror as she suddenly realized that they were surrounded by dozens of party goers standing at shocked attention. Casting him a look of pure loathing, she flung herself into the farthest corner of the carriage and snapped open her fan.

Richard’s low growl, “James!” brought the coachman to his senses and they began to roll forward.

More than a few members of the
ton
fell back, clearing a path before the long stare from his unreadable eyes. Ignoring their interested faces, he sprawled at ease until they reached the near corner and turned it.

He leaned forward again and touched James’s shoulder. “Pull up here. Take the young lady home safely, James. I’ll walk to Avalon House.” He turned to Arabella and took one gloved hand into his own. “Good evening, Bella,” he declared evenly, “I’ll see you on my return. And, of course, I’ll abide by any decisions you have made.”

He looked her full in the face and recognized the moment when she acknowledged defeat. Really he should feel some remorse at having put her so neatly in her place. Instead he felt only relief. He strolled off, his steps buoyed by a new energy. At last! The opportunity to escape this endless tedium. He’d find a place where men thought of something besides the fold of their cravats or the toss of the dice. It was the sanest move he’d made in months, even if he must endure another of Bella’s famous snits.

Richard went directly to his wing of the house and roused his valet to inform him that he must be packed and on the road to Scotland by dawn. Crowley did not question such a rash decision; he merely arched his bushy gray brows and inquired if His Grace would be traveling with the baggage coaches.

“Goodness no!” He was caught up with anticipation, the first real excitement he’d felt since the battle of Waterloo two years before, when delivering the Duke of Wellington’s communiqués to his commanders had given him a true sense of purpose. He wanted the fresh bracing air of the country on his face and the feel of powerful horseflesh beneath him. “I’m going ahead on Wildfire. Don’t look for me until you get to the Caladonia in Edinburgh.”

He pulled on his riding clothes. Now that he had decided, nothing would hinder his departure. But before he could go he had to stop in the library. He flung a glass of port down his throat and then sat at the dark walnut desk to pen a note to his mother. He wouldn’t wake her at this unseemly hour.

As if the thought had conjured her up, his mother stood before him. A scent of roses filled the air; her white hair was braided in one long plait, pulled tightly back from a face still unbelievably lovely, even in age, dominated by the dark flashing eyes which were her legacy to all her children.

“I understand you are leaving for Scotland at dawn. And if you don’t return within a fortnight Arabella is crying off.”

His mother’s calm pronouncement hardly fazed him. However she did it, he’d never understand, but she always knew everything.

“The gossip mill grinds even at this hour!” He stepped forward to kiss her cheek. “I don’t doubt you know what will happen in the next day, not to mention two hours ago.”

“No matter, dearest one. I understand you must go. What will transpire will no doubt be for the best.”

“You wanted this union, Mother,” he said softly, for he understood her best of all her children.

“It was spoken of long ago, before I knew who and what you would be; but there was never a constraint on you, Richard.” She crossed to the bookcase and, searching its shelves, finally located a dark leather-bound volume. Pulling it from its place she put it in his hands. “You go on a great journey.”

“Mother, I…”

Lovingly cupping his chin with her graceful fingers, she gazed solemnly up into his face. “I wonder, do you know what you seek?”

Identical chocolate eyes met, and hers held his in a long searching look. It was impossible now, just as it had always been, to tell her less than the truth.

“No. But I shall know when I find it. Then, never fear, I shall return to do my duty.”

Then what had awakened her? She settled the covers about her, preparing to lie back down. Her long, heavy hair had come undone from its neat plait, and she smoothed the tendrils away from her face as she glanced toward her favorite dreaming place, the cushioned window seat. The first fingers of dawn’s light always touched that window, turning it the soft pink of Lottie’s beloved roses.

Odd. This morning the sunlight was fiery in color and the glass glowed red-gold.

Intrigued, she flung back the coverlet and padded across the cool wood floor. She curled up on the window seat and pressed her nose to the glass.

Her heart nearly burst from her chest. Fire! Flames shot from behind the stable, then fell to the roof. Flowing along the eaves like a scarlet blanket, they spread down the walls as she watched.

The horses!

“Uncle Ian!” she screamed, wrenching open her bedroom door. “Uncle Ian, the stable is on fire!” she shouted through his door, giving the wood a hard slap with her flat palm as she flew past.

She ran out into the yard and toward the stable. Gray smoke choked her but she ran into it, all feelings deadened except one: the need to save her horses.

She pulled the stable door open and heat slammed into her, nearly knocking her over with its force.

“It’s all right! I’m here!” she tried to shout over the wild cries of the horses.

The smoke blinded her, but she knew the stable. Lara and Beauty were to her left, Lightning and Black to her right. The other mares were penned at the back.

She turned to the left, feeling along the wood until she reached Beauty’s stall. Grabbing a halter, she tangled her fingers in the mare’s mane and forced her to submit to the lead. Beauty didn’t want to leave the safety of her stall. It took all of Mary’s strength to pull her forward.

“Mary! Get out, girl!” Uncle Ian shouted, running toward her with his white nightshirt flapping out of hastily pulled-on trousers.

“Take Beauty!” She thrust the mare’s lead into his hands and spun on the balls of her feet to dash back.

She heard him cursing behind her. A moment later he was beside her.

“Get the Black! I’ll go to Lara!” she commanded.

Lara rolled her eyes in terror, and Mary quieted her, laying a hand against the chestnut mane. “Lara, girl, I’m here,” she soothed through her aching throat. Although the mare’s eyes were still wild, she dropped her head in recognition.

Suddenly the hayloft above her burst into flame. Heat seared her skin, the hot air almost impossible to take into her lungs. She found the water bucket and dashed some into her face. She must hurry!

She grabbed Lara’s mane and pulled herself up bareback. Mary tightened her bare thighs around the mare’s trembling flesh, forcing her to respond. Her throat was too tight and dry to speak, but she leaned forward over the chestnut neck, making clucking sounds and encouraging Lara out of the stable.

The moment she was free of the stable door she slid off the mare’s back. “Freedom,” she choked, and slapped Lara’s rump hard, hoping she would run to the far field where she pastured.

Her eyes watered so from the painful burning smoke that she pressed them closed momentarily to gain an instant of relief. Coughing, she stumbled into the yard blindly. Hearing Lottie’s cries of panic, she opened her lids.

Directly ahead of her, the black silhouette of a man on horseback wavered through the gray smoke billowing through the yard.

He leapt down and ran toward her. “How many horses are left in there?”

His voice commanded, forcing her out of her state of shock.

Uncle Ian emerged from the smoke leading a recalcitrant Black, who minced back two steps for every pace forward.

“Seven!” she shouted. “Six are penned together. I’ll take care of Lightning!”

She turned, running back into the blazing stable. The stranger raced beside her.

“Where are they?” he shouted, and she pointed to the back of the stable, where flames engulfed the wooden beams.

He disappeared into the black smoke as Mary ducked a piece of flaming wood, fear pounding through her with such force that for an instant she couldn’t move. The next moment a crash beside her spurred her forward. There wasn’t much time left.

Lightning was plunging wildly, kicking against the wooden slats of his stall. No matter what she tried, he wouldn’t let her get a lead on him. The heat scorched her skin, and breathing was like drinking flames. Dizzy from holding her breath, Mary fell to her knees, knocking against Lightning’s water bucket. In one last desperate lunge she threw the water at the horse, startling him and drenching herself. Revived momentarily, she grabbed an old blanket and threw it over his head to blind him. With the last of her strength she grabbed a handful of mane and pulled.

She sobbed as, miraculously, he moved.

“I’m here, Lightning, that’s a good boy,” she croaked, leading him into the yard.

Ian ran past her.

“Mary, don’t go back in there! I can’t handle these horses alone,” Lottie sobbed, holding Beauty and Black with trembling hands.

Mary nodded, knowing Lottie hardly knew one end of a horse from the other, and gently took the other reins. “It will be all right, Lottie. We must lead them over here to the far paddock. Have you seen Lara?”

Her voice was raspy and her throat ached, but it didn’t matter any more than her bleeding and burned bare limbs mattered. They were saving the horses.

“Lottie, shut them in here,” she said gently. “I’ve got to get back for the other horses.”

The entire roof of the stable burned a bright red glow against the dawn light. She swayed to a stop, watching the flames destroy her father’s dream. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she clenched her fists, determined to save the rest of her precious stock.

Suddenly the stranger burst through the doorway with two of the young mares. “Take them!”

He thrust the reins into her hands. Before she could stop him he was gone, dashing past Ian as he came through with two more mares.

Even though reaction was setting in, making every movement a struggle to perform without shaking, she quickly led the horses to the paddock, where Lottie leaned wearily against the gate.

Rolling tears left streaks of white on her smoke-grimed cheeks, but Lottie managed a quaking smile. “We’re going to save them all, aren’t we Mary?”

“Yes. Just two more.” She was horrified to hear the sob in her voice. “Just two more and everyone will be safe.”

Remembering the stranger, she whirled, running back to help him.

The wind fed the fire, sending it in high bright fingers of russet toward the dawn sun. Suddenly a gust blew the billowing black smoke away from the entrance. Mary saw the stranger leading out the last two horses.

He must have heard the ominous creaking noise at the same instant she did, for she saw him slap the rumps of both horses, sending them racing away toward her.

But he didn’t escape. The edge of the falling lintel beam caught the back of his head.

A scream of horror ripped from her aching throat. As he tumbled forward she rushed to help him, sidestepping the bolting horses.

He fell just inside the ruined stable. A blazing timber lay across one hessian. She pushed it away, singeing her fingers.

With both hands she grabbed under his arms to pull him out to the yard. His weight fought her strength. Giving one wrenching sob, she dug her feet firmly into the dirt and pulled even harder. She had to get him to safety! The stable was completely engulfed, the back wall fallen in. Her burned feet and bruised fingers were numb and helpless against his unresponsive form.

“Give way, Mary, my girl,” Uncle Ian spoke suddenly from behind her.

Tears of relief choked her as Ian took the burden from her hands. The stranger was taller than her uncle, but Ian possessed a strength belied by his small stature.

With a grunt, he hefted the stranger over his shoulder. “Which room, Mary girl?”

“Mine.”

She ran ahead to straighten the covers and plump her feather pillow. By the time Ian entered with the stranger hanging limply over his shoulder, she was already considering what to do to help this knight-errant.

Her horses were all safe. It was a miracle, and they’d never have done it without him!

“Careful with the poor soul,” Lottie fussed, following Ian in.

The stranger dwarfed her small bed. His long limbs hung over the end where Ian knelt to pull off his boots. She looked at him, wondering who he was. Why had he been riding down the lane so early in the morning?

He moaned and turned his head as his second boot came off. Blood oozed through his dark wavy hair onto the white cotton pillow cover. His face was caked with grime from the thick smoke.

She reached for the linen cloth hanging beside her washstand and dipped it into the bowl. Carefully she cleaned his face.

“Lottie, please fetch some lint so we can wrap his head,” she said without stopping her task. The cloth smoothed his forehead, cleaning bits of ash out of his dark eyebrows. She rinsed it in the bowl, then softly ran it over his high cheekbones and into the deep grooves that ran from either side of his nose.

It was a strong face, she decided, the face of one used to getting his own way. For some inexplicable reason, perhaps reaction to everything that had happened in the last hour, her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the cloth to his firm lips.

He murmured something unintelligible and turned his face into her hand. A tremor ran through her. He was so helpless, and all because he’d helped her!

Lottie returned, and together they wound a length of lint around his head to stay the blood from the wound.

“We’ve stopped the bleeding, but he must have a doctor. Uncle Ian, go for Dr. McAlister while I make him more comfortable,” she commanded, her fingers already fumbling with his ruined cravat.

Her uncle grabbed her wrist in an iron grip. “You’re not about to undress him yourself. You may be forgettin’ who you are, my girl, but I am not. Lottie, fetch me that salve from the oak chest.” Ian threw the words over his shoulder, his steady eyes challenging Mary.

She shook free of his grasp. “Uncle Ian, don’t be absurd! I am nineteen and not about to swoon at the sight of a naked chest. This poor man needs our help!”

“And that he’ll be gettin’,” Ian declared, his usually merry mouth a hard straight slash in his narrow flushed face. “Ah, Lottie, thank’ee lass.”

Handing the salve to Ian, Lottie cast Mary an understanding glance from red-rimmed eyes. She responded with her most pleading look, but Lottie merely shook her head. There would be no help from that quarter.

“What do you expect me to do? Pace the hallway wringing my hands like the veriest miss while you attend to his needs?”

Already tackling the ruined lawn shirt, her uncle ignored her. He could be just as stubborn as she.

“Mary, Ian’s right.” Lottie placed one plump hand on Mary’s shoulder, urging her up from the bed. “Come away now. You should be after checking your horse and making sure the others are all right. There’s much to be done elsewhere. It’s not proper for you to be here.”

Knowing how hard Lottie always strived to do “the proper,” Mary relented. “I shall do as you ask, Lottie. But when I return I insist on helping!”

Making her way down the narrow stairs, she felt the burns on her calves and feet begin to blister, making it difficult to walk without a limp. Biting her lip against the pain, she moved out into the yard.

The stable was gone. All that remained was a grotesque ruin of blackened timbers that smoldered and occasionally spit out a burst of red sparks. Mary was grateful the wind had died so there was no threat to the house.

She could see her horses, huddled together at the far side of the paddock, Lara nosing Beauty from outside the fence. But the stranger’s stallion stood exactly where he had been left. Running a palm along his black glossy neck, she marveled at his lines. He was the finest Arabian she’d ever seen. If she had such a magnificent stud, all her problems would be over.

The Moroccan leather of the saddlebag only reinforced what she already suspected; her unknown hero was someone of quality. The bag yielded two fresh lawn shirts and five cravats. When she lifted out his personal linen, her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She quickly stuffed them back and pulled out a slim leather-bound volume.

On the inside cover was a clue to his identity. “To my son, Richard. With love, Mother.”

Richard. That was all. That, and the trappings of wealth.

Perhaps he came from the life her mother had abandoned so long ago. It was a dream world of princes and queens, of elaborate balls and stately homes and beautiful flowing gowns. Mary’s head was full of the stories her mother had told of her life before she’d married John Masterton and come to live at the Scottish border. She never regretted a moment of that life, she’d insisted, content with her husband and their small horse farm.

After the terrible winter when her parents died, Mary had briefly dreamed of going to London and tasting that life. But it was a world that was forever closed to her, regardless of Uncle Ian’s protestations. According to the solicitor, her grandfather wanted nothing to do with her. He would only continue to pay the tiny stipend Mary’s mother had received from her mother if she stayed away from society and didn’t disgrace him.

Clasping the book to the thin cotton bodice of her ruined night robe, Mary surveyed her world, the only world she had ever known, or was likely to know.

At least the snug two-story cottage where she had been born was unharmed. Lottie’s roses still climbed one wall, spangling the whitewash with splashes of pink. The reek of smoke swirled around her, but she lifted her chin, refusing to give in to despair. This was her father’s legacy to her: the horses and this small piece of land. No one could or would take it away from her.

And now she had a stranger to thank for that. If he hadn’t helped … She couldn’t bear to think of it!

She grabbed the reins of Richard’s horse; at first he wouldn’t move, but Mary had a way with animals. She cooed softly into his ear as she coaxed him into a smaller ring next to her own horses. She called to Lara and let her into the paddock so she would be safe.