The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel) (28 page)

Sometimes he attended dinner with Alexandria, but only if there were plenty of people in the house and he could confidently converse with Meade and Jane nearby with Alexandria as far down as possible on the other end of the table. It was rare that he attempted it with only the four of them. Jane had said that Alex didn’t think it strange that his secretary ate at the table like family most times. She had always eaten her meals with her two servants. Alexandria thought Meade was wonderful. Jane blushed when she told that morsel, obviously agreeing.

Walking into his dressing room, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and untied his cravat. Laying that aside, he unbuttoned several buttons on his white shirt and strode to the wardrobe. George, his valet, was usually on hand to sort through what he would wear, but Gabriel had sent word through the butler that he would do it himself this night. The encounter with Alexandria still left him rattled and he wanted to dress alone.

He changed his boots for more formal ones, then walked over to the wide window and opened it, letting the spring breeze cool his face. His eyes blurred and he saw her face again, looking up at him, distraught by the mess her beast had made but not afraid of him, even when he’d scowled at her. He saw that sparkle in her eyes when he’d pressed his finger against her soft lips and demanded her not to speak. She’d clamped her lips together and met his gaze, unafraid, her blue eyes roving his face, seeming like . . . she loved him.

He blew out a breath and turned from the window, blocking the thought that if he threw his hat in the ring for her heart, she would reject him and then the ennui would come back like nothing he’d ever known. This agony was better than that.

As he turned he saw something white on his pillow. Frowning, he strode over to it and picked it up. Lavender and mint wafted to his nose. He turned it over and saw the Featherstone seal in pale pink wax.

She’d written him a letter.

He opened it and swallowed hard at the first line.

Dear Gabriel,

I only call you by your given name in my mind, when you aren’t around and I imagine you won’t mind. Do you mind? You seem to mind so much now that I am here.

I must confess some things as they are too heavy on my heart to remain there unsaid. Firstly, when I learned that my guardian was a duke, I thought you would be old. And fat. And have the gout or some sort of quizzing glass to make you eccentric and impossibly dukelike. But then when we started to write one another, I thought maybe you were not so old, mayhap just a little intimidating and wiser than I. When I saw you at the masquerade ball (you know the moment when I discovered it was you), I confess to being shocked and intrigued. You were nothing as I imagined and everything I could hope for. I was confused and told myself that I had to keep the mission to find my parents the most important thing in my heart and mind. Nothing could come between me and finding them. I still pray every day that they are alive and that I will see them again someday soon. Do you believe they might still be alive? I long to talk with you about them. I would do anything to find them, which brings me to my next confession.

I did not love John Lemon. I liked him enough to think we might match, and he promised to help me find my parents. And you seemed determined that I not find them, that I come here to London with you, so I did a rash thing and said I would marry him. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have done it. His death was more my fault than yours. He believed me when I said I would marry him and he loved me, in a way I now see was desperate and very wrong. It cost him his life, and I can’t begin to sort through how wretched I feel about that. I wish we could talk about that too, together. Why won’t you talk to me?

I live with you and never see you. Why? I miss you.

Yours,

Alexandria

P.S. I know I’m not to speak of Latimere, but I promise he will be good. You should walk with us some day and get to know him. If you will only give him a chance, I know you will love him as I do.

She missed him. Gabriel looked up at the ceiling. She didn’t love John, never had. She wanted Gabriel to walk her dog with her and talk to her. She missed him.

And she was writing to him again, taking a great risk to tell him what was in her heart and hoping that letters would break the icy silence between them.

He walked to the desk and took out paper.

Dear Alexandria,

Of course you may call me by my given name, I prefer it from you, but only when we are at home. Elsewhere, as my ward, it would only be appropriate for you to address me as “Your Grace.” We don’t want to set the gossips’ tongues to wagging.

Listen to me, my dear. You are not responsible for John’s death. I am. And he is. He decided to travel with you throughout Iceland. I wish you had known that I was prepared to do the same. I was coming to the shore at Dublin that day, not to take you back to London, but to go with you to Iceland. I had decided to defy the regent and join you on your search for your parents, but that giant friend of yours successfully forestalled me. You may be wondering why it took me so long to come to you. Let’s just say I was waylaid by the Spanish, the same ones who were following you in Ireland. When I finally arrived in Reykjavik, it was too late. We were both caught by the king’s soldiers and had to come back. You ask if I believe your parents might be still alive. Yes, I do. But we must wait and pray as the regent is keeping a very close eye on us both.

This brings me to another issue. You have done everything I’ve asked from the lessons to attending all the social events of the season. Next week, we will host your debut. The regent is demanding you choose your husband soon. Choose wisely, my dear, for you are what any man dreams of.

Yours,

Gabriel

He dripped the wax onto the folded letter and pressed it with his seal. Then he knelt on one knee, pressed his fist against his forehead with eyes closed, and prayed for courage.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

N
o, no, no.” Her dancing instructor, Mr. Wilson, shook his head as he rose from the pianoforte and came over to her, arms waving in the air like a featherless bird. “Like this.” He stood beside her and showed her the intricate steps to the second figure of the quadrille. It was the tenth time that morning he’d demonstrated them.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson. It seems I cannot concentrate today.” Alex looked down at his feet and tried to pay attention, but all she could think of was the duke’s letter. He’d written her back. And so soon.

She had gone to dinner to find that he had left the house again, gone to some play or the opera, his favorite pastime. Or maybe he was dancing with beautiful women at a ball—a thought that made pricks of pain score her heart. That’s what she had been thinking when she’d entered her bedchamber and with despondent fingers helped Clarissa, her bossy, chatty maid, unbutton her gown. The gown she had carefully chosen for the night thinking that after reading her thoughts, he might be there and finally speak to her, acknowledge her. But he hadn’t been there at all.

She made her way to her bed and crawled into the dark, warm covers to hide and cry, only to hear the crinkling of paper. Her frenzy as she opened it made her heart race. She read it twice, lay back, clutched it to her chest, and then reread it several more times. She had already memorized every line:

Of course she might call him by his given name, he preferred that she did.

He was coming to the shore at Dublin that day, not to take her back to London, but to go with her to Iceland. He had decided to defy the prince regent and join her search for her parents!

She would have her debut next week and he wanted her to find a husband soon.
Was he offering himself as a candidate? He did say,
“he thinks her a woman that any man would dream of.”

Did he mean that? Any man? Even himself? Then why didn’t he pursue her? But the letter was a start. He sounded like himself, the one she knew, in his letter. And he thought her parents were alive!

“Lady Featherstone!” Mr. Wilson barked. “The ball is a mere week away. You must pay attention!”

She jerked toward him, her face burning with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“Please pay attention!” He took her hand and held out her arm in an elegant position.

The door to the drawing room suddenly opened and Gabriel stepped inside. He was here! Was he looking for her? She stared at his face, willing him to look at her. He appeared torn, eyes downcast and holding his hat as if he didn’t know how it had gotten there. He turned as if he would leave.

In a panic, Alex rushed over to him, touched his arm with a brush of her fingertips, and hurried to say, “Please stay. I cannot seem to concentrate on my lessons today.”

He was looking at her lips so she smiled encouragingly at him.

“Perhaps I can be of some help,” his deep voice rumbled.

He gave a dismissive wave to the dance instructor and turned Alexandria into his arms. His hands fit perfectly around hers. His body snapped into the pose to dance, shoulders back, chest up, chin up, but looking down at her. “You know the waltz. We danced it at the masquerade. Shall we practice that?” Without waiting for her answer, he turned his head toward Mr. Wilson. “The waltz, if you please.”

They waited while he seated himself and found the music for the song. They waited, facing each other, so close Alex could feel his breath against the top of her hair, his hand clasped in hers, holding it with just the right amount of pressure—not too tight or too loose, his other hand lightly at her waist, causing warmth to spread down to her knees. She was so attuned to his nearness that she dared not speak and break the spell.

He seemed to feel the same. He stared down into her eyes, so intent, so unguarded for these few heartbeats in time . . . as if a shield had lowered and he stood before her as bare and utterly beautiful as God had made him. The sudden notes from the pianoforte made her jump and then they were moving.

It was like the last time. She didn’t need lessons when she danced with him. The simple steps came easy. She stepped into his world and he guided her through it with a twirling masculine grace that made her heart light with joy. She was smiling so big that she suddenly laughed. She couldn’t hold it in, this joy. He tightened his grip on her, his eyes lighting with equal pleasure.

On and on around the room they turned and floated, every now and then he would pull her tighter to him so their chests almost touched. It was scandalous, the way he held her and made her feel, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want him to ever let go.

The music came to a slow stop but they kept dancing. Around the room again they went until a sudden, strange look came into Gabriel’s eyes, a mix of irritation and embarrassment. He stopped them and looked at the dancing instructor, “You may leave us,” then quickly back to Alexandria.

“How long ago did he stop playing?” He gazed down at her with such a look of anger, she couldn’t begin to understand what had happened to change his mood so abruptly. The door shut behind Mr. Wilson.

Alex took a step closer to him and pressed her hands against his chest. “Only a little while ago. It’s all right,” she said in a soft voice. “I didn’t want to stop either.”

He grasped hold of her hands, hard. He was staring intently at her lips. Did he want to kiss her? She leaned toward him and closed her eyes.

“I hope you’ll not offer yourself so easily to any man who dances with you.”

It was like a slap in the face. Alex reared back as heat flamed into her cheeks. Of course she wouldn’t. He wasn’t any man. The memory of the times she had let John kiss her filled her with shame. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was a wanton woman with no principles. Perhaps she would like kisses from any man. It wasn’t true though! It was
him
. Tears sprang to her eyes.

She turned to leave but he caught her and pulled her back into his arms. “I’m sorry.” He pressed his cheek to her temple. “Forgive me. I–I, Alexandria.” He took a long breath that she felt against her chest. “There is something I haven’t told you. Your guardian . . . I . . . I cannot hear . . . anything anymore. I can’t hear you when you speak to me. I couldn’t hear when the music stopped.”

He let go of her then, looked one time into her eyes, and then pushed away from her and hurried from the room. Alex stood staring at the slammed door, stunned, unable to move or think. Her duke was deaf?

WHAT HAD HE DONE? GABRIEL
rushed toward the dark recesses of the house, to the blue salon that was so rarely used, his grandmother’s salon, where he could be alone with the wretched feeling that he’d ruined everything.

Oh, God, what have I done?

He felt like hitting something. Instead he took long, deep breaths and prowled around the room. Finally he stopped and made his way over to the grand piano. It was the best instrument in the house and, sadly, never played. He sat on the bench and poised his fingers over the black keys. He plucked at them, head hanging over them, feeling for the vibration through his hands and feet, trying to remember a song he had once played. With a straining in his heart for some solace, he closed his eyes and played a chord and then another. No colors yet. Nothing but a silent emptiness that filled his whole being.

He felt a sudden hand on his shoulder.

It was her. He knew it. He felt her particular gentle strength coming from her hand, chasing away the despair that was devouring him. Without opening his eyes, he began to play the song in earnest. It flooded back to him and through him, her hand on his shoulder giving him strength. Slashes of blue and green streaked across the darkness of his closed lids and then turned to droplets of vibrant color, notes that floated up and away. A shower of yellow when he played the higher notes and dots of purple on the lower scale.

He played like he had never been able to play before. With the colors guiding him, it was as natural as breathing. With her hand on his shoulder, anything seemed possible. The song ended. His eyes flew open and he turned his head to find Alexandria looking at him with big, questioning eyes that did, as Meade had said when he first tried to describe her, perfectly match this room.