The Secret Duke (28 page)

Thoroughly depressed, she demanded hot water in the bedchamber.

When it came, she locked the door to the parlor and the other to the corridor, and prepared for bed. She took off her gown and jumps. She thought about removing her petticoat. It was bulky, but she had to keep it on or she’d be in only her shift, which was less covering than her nightgown.

She thought about her nightgown. It rose up to the neck and fell to the floor. The sleeves were full-length. But a nightgown was a nightgown, and she couldn’t share a bed with a man when in her nightgown.

She took off her stockings and then unpinned the wig and let down her hair. She brushed it, plaited it, and then went to glare at the bed.

She drew the curtains all around it. Perhaps he’d take that as a hint.

She listened at the adjoining door. Nothing. She quickly unlocked both doors, then scrambled into the dark tent of the bed.

She realized that she’d left the candle lit, but so be it.

She pulled the covers up to her nose and lay on the very edge of the side farthest from the door. Remembering the pistol, she reached down and undid the clasp of the valise.

She couldn’t bring herself to put the pistol under her pillow. That felt far too dangerous. It was close, and that was a comfort, but she wasn’t sure she’d get a wink of sleep.

 

 

 

 

T
horn knocked before entering the bedchamber. There was no answer. By the guttering candle he saw the evidence of washing and the curtains drawn firmly all around the bed and smiled. She was probably clinging to the very limit of the far side as if her life depended on it.

He really should take the floor, but floors were damn hard and it made no sense. She was ruined by being here, regardless of where he slept. If it ever came to that, they were compromised in any number of ways without sharing a bed.

He trimmed the candlewick, and then went out to the parlor to request fresh water. When it came, he carried it quietly into the bedchamber and went behind the screen to wash.

He resumed his shirt as instructed, but then instead of climbing in on the near side, he picked up the candlestick and went around to the far side of the bed. He parted the curtains just enough to see. There she was, right on the edge as he’d expected, but if she’d huddled under the covers at first, she’d eased them a little, exposing her head. He smiled at the plain nightcap tied beneath her chin.

He’d had many women in many beds, some briefly and some for the night, but none had worn a prim, plain cap. Was that why it seemed ridiculously erotic?

She’d plaited her bronze hair, but wisps escaped. Her lips were slightly parted, and he remembered their sweetness on the terrace at the revels. He leaned down, but then straightened, restraining himself.

Her eyelashes lay on her cheek, but they were not extraordinarily thick or long. Her brows would benefit from plucking, but they were elegantly curved. He would not resort to ogling her chin. Though it was a pretty chin, and could be firm.

He pinched out the candle, but the image of the sleeping Bella lingered in his mind as he made his way around to his side of the bed. He settled into it as carefully as he could, and hoped for sleep.

 

Bella awoke the next morning sniffing the air like a wary rabbit. If she’d had whiskers, they’d be twitching. She could sense the man. She could smell him, though not by any distinct aroma. She thought perhaps she could hear him breathe.

She squirmed onto her back and slid a look at him.

He was on his back too, his far arm hidden, but his nearer one out on the bedcovers between them. He seemed fast asleep.

She wanted to study him. She wanted to move closer. She found the strength to slide sideways out from beneath the covers, letting her feet down to the floor without use of the steps. Once she was out of the bed, she grabbed her clothing and crept into the next room.

She could hear the inn sounds now—wheels, hooves, and voices outside the window, and steps in the corridor. She was sure those noises had been audible from the bedchamber, but tension had deafened her. The cat’s basket was open, but cat and kittens seemed asleep.

She hurried back into her clothes, and then realized that there was no mirror in this room, and her hairbrush, pins, and cap were also in the bedchamber. She left her plait as it was and went to the window to peer out. A reasonable day. Perhaps a little sunshine for their ridiculous search for cat-rabbits of Hesse.

She had to chuckle. The whole story must be a confection.

A noise to her right made her turn, startled. There was no one there. It had been a soft sound, like something light falling. After looking around, she noticed that the cat’s basket was shut.

She went over and opened it. “You are very rude.”

As the cat’s face always scowled, it was hard to tell its feelings, but she’d swear it was scowling at her now.

“You’re not even his cat. You belong to a friend of his.”

The cat made a sound like
“zup!”
that Bella heard as a sneering dismissal. She lowered the lid of the basket, saying, “Have it as you will.”

“Don’t tell me you’re talking to Tabitha as well.”

Bella turned sharply, feeling caught in a misdeed. He was mostly dressed, lacking only his coat, though his hair hung loose as it had the first time she’d met him. As it had that drunken night at the Compass. And at the Olympian Revels?

“She shut the basket lid to snub me.”

“Yes, she does that.”

Bella was looking at the basket as they spoke, and she saw the lid rise a little. Then it rose more as the cat stood. Tabitha kicked it back completely with one hind leg, saying,
“Ah-ee-o-ee.”

Addressing Rose, of course, and it sounded like, “How are you?”

Bella stalked into the bedroom to do her hair.
Let them commune with each other.

When she saw her scowling face in the mirror, however, she burst into giggles. When she recovered enough, she saw Captain Rose in the mirror, smiling at her.

There was something in his face, almost a tenderness, and it made her heart flutter. Bella paid attention to her hair, untying the plait and brushing it out, for some reason tongue-tied.

When she glanced again, he was still watching, leaning against the jamb of the open door.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, not turning.

“No. I’m simply enjoying watching a woman attend to her hair.”

“A novelty for you, is it?” she asked scathingly.

But he said, “Yes.”

“You’ll be trying to convince me you’re a saint next.”

“Never that. Do you need help?”

“With my hair? I doubt a man like you has the skills.”

“I can tie knots.”

“Which is the exact opposite of what I want.”

She focused on her own reflection again, aghast at the effect he was having on her. Her heart was racing. She was sure she was flushed. It was because of the bed and the soft, sweet domesticity winding around them.

“Have you ordered breakfast?” she asked, more sharply than she’d intended.

“I’ll attend to it, Your Majesty,” he said, and disappeared from view.

Bella put her hand to her chest for a moment, trying to steady her heart, but when she looked in the mirror, her eyes were bright.

Stars in the eyes.

Was there any way to make her dreams come true?

She wouldn’t even consider whether it would be wise to do so.

A snug house in Dover. A bedchamber much like this one, but with a smaller bed. One they would truly share.

She hastily twisted her hair and speared it with hairpins. She fixed on the wig and put the cap on top. There, that was better, but her eyes still sparkled. She put on her spectacles. They dimmed the glow a little, but not, perhaps, enough.

Why did she want to conceal it?

Hadn’t he, perhaps, looked at her in a special way?

She heard someone arrive in the other room and rose. Breakfast. He must have left to order it, for she hadn’t heard him shout. She smoothed down her skirts and checked her appearance once again, wishing she were a raving beauty. Wishing she were at least dressed prettily. Then she joined him.

“We have tea and chocolate,” he said, gesturing for her to take a seat at the table. “If you want coffee, I’ll get it for you.”

“No, chocolate is perfect,” Bella said, sitting. She watched him pour tea for himself. It was a clear amber and he added no milk or sugar. She also noticed a small wooden chest on the table.

“Have you brought your own tea?” she asked.

“A foible of mine.”

“I’m still surprised to find you a tea drinker.”

He smiled at her. “What constitutes a tea drinker?”

Daring to tease, Bella said, “A milksop?”

“Unfair to the most enchanting brew the world knows, Bella. You permit that, in private?”

Bella suspected she should object for her heart’s safety, but she said, “Of course. And you are Caleb?”

“Ah.” He considered his teacup, then looked up. “My friends call me Thorn. From Rose, you see. Will you use that?”

She wanted to, but it felt dangerous. “I’m not sure. It seems such a . . . personal name.”

“What do you call your brother?” he asked, beginning to eat ham.

“Augustus. We were never close enough for nicknames, though I certainly should have thought of an alternative.” Bella took a piece of fresh, hot bread and began to butter it. “Augustus means the most high. I wonder what the opposite would be.”

“Mean?” he suggested. “Shameful? Base?”

“I don’t suppose there’s a name that means base.”

“Bastard?” he offered, then asked, “What’s the matter?”

Bella looked at him, trying to decide what to say. “I understand you are a bastard. An illegitimate son of the Duke of Ithorne, and brother of the current duke.”

“Ah, that.” He did look uncomfortable, but then he shrugged. “I feel no shame in it.”

Bella watched him eat ham with a hearty appetite and had to believe him. “I hear the current duke has been kind to you.”

“I get to sail the
Black Swan
. I don’t envy him, if that’s what concerns you. Hellish business, being a duke.”

“Most people wouldn’t think that.”

“Most people have no idea what it involves.”

“You say that fervently. He talks to you about his life?”

He was busy pouring himself more tea. “We are brothers.”

Bella remembered her questions about the donation of a thousand guineas. “Is he a generous man?” she asked.

He looked up in surprise. “Ithorne? I’d say so.”

“Does he support any particular causes?”

“Seeking a donation? For what?”

She’d triggered his curiosity, so she shrugged. “Oh, nothing like that. You probably find dukes commonplace, but to me one is an extraordinary creature.”

“He’s just a man, like me.”

She had to chuckle. “I doubt that. He probably has ten servants to help him to dress, and four barbers to keep his face free of hair.”

“He does like to be clean shaven.”

“There, see. And never a hair out of place or a spot of dirt on his shining shoes.”

“Exactly!” But his lips were twitching.

“I have seen him, you know,” she said. “At a distance, of course. But he is always in perfect order.”

“In public. He has a private face.” He drank tea, watching her. “He is not so bad a fellow, Bella. Believe me.”

She realized he was fond of his brother and perhaps even loved him and she was embarrassed to have poked fun. “As you say, perhaps it’s not easy to have such a high station and have everyone in awe of you.”

“No. Perhaps the bastard son has the best of it, so Bastard Barstowe would be far too good a name for your brother.” He considered a moment. “I believe I will simply think of him as Slug.”

Bella almost choked on her chocolate. “Excellent. Henceforth, he is Sir Sluggaby Barstowe.”

They clinked cups, in perfect agreement, and returned to their meal.

“So how long do we have to give Sir Sluggaby his comeuppance?”

His expression altered, and she realized that she’d licked butter off her lips. “They say warm butter is injurious to health,” she said nervously, “but it is so delicious.”

“ ‘They’ are invariably killjoys,” he said.

“They are, aren’t they?” He was still watching her and had hardly touched his food.

“Eat!” she commanded. “Would you like hard eggs, cheese . . . ?”

“Are you going to mother me?” When she looked up, he added, “Or wife me?”

She caught layers of meaning in that and her cheeks went hot. “Don’t!” It had escaped without thought. “Don’t,” she repeated, “don’t tease me in that way here, now.”

“You’re right. I apologize. But it is almost irresistible, Bella.”

He began to eat again. Bella attended to her own food, tongue-tied.

“And,” he added, “it is delightful that you leave the door open to my teasing you that way in some other time and place.”

Bella looked at him, and honesty wouldn’t let her dismiss the suggestion. She was leaving the door wide-open, and to pain as well, but she was willing to take the risk. For now, however, they should return to business.

“What did you learn last night?”

“The Old Oak is as reported, and a fairly discreet place. Most of the men who game there also use the women. You are disturbed by my speaking of these matters?”

“No,” Bella said, “but I pity the poor women forced into that trade.”

“You have a kind and thoughtful heart. No one would think such work ideal, but there will always be some women who must earn their bread, and morality aside, there are worse ways.”

“No one should be forced to that,” Bella protested.