When Seducing A Duke (16 page)

Chapter 13

I
t was raining.

Grey looked up from Trystan’s letter as the first drops struck the panes of his study. Usually he liked the rain—the sweet smell of it in the garden often reminded him of Rose. But tonight it struck hard and with brutality—like Ophelia tossing herself from the tower to the waters below.

Suicidal rain. He obviously needed a change in locale if that was the bent his mind wanted to take. But where to go that his past wouldn’t jump at the chance to bite him on the arse? Perhaps once the season was over and Rose well on her way to becoming another man’s bride—if not already married—he would take a trip to America to visit Tryst.

Preferably, he’d board the boat to New York before Rose’s nuptials. To hell with the request to act in her father’s stead—as if she would even want him now. He might have a touch of martyr in him, but he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. In fact, a visit to his younger brother would be the perfect excuse to avoid the wedding altogether, which was more than all right with him.

Rumor had it, according to Arch, that Maxwell was planning to come up to scratch this time and actually propose to Rose. And if he didn’t, there was some speculation that Aiden Kane might be a candidate as Lady Rose was said to have made quite an impression when they met.

Grey would slit his own throat before he let his cousin anywhere near Rose. Aiden was an unrepentant rake. Or at least he had been last time Grey had spoken to him, which had been years ago. Besides, Aiden would have to come to him to discuss particulars, and he doubted that would happen since he hadn’t stepped foot in Ryeton House since Grey got his comeuppance.

It didn’t matter that Rose was better off with someone else. That didn’t mean he had to want to see it. He’d be pissed if she seemed happy and miserable if she wasn’t.

He turned back to the letter from his brother as the fire in the hearth kept the dampness at bay. Tryst hoped to return to England sometime soon, possibly later in the summer. His business in New York had him very busy at the moment—which meant good things for the family fortunes.

It was just as well that his younger brother wasn’t there, as much as Grey missed him. It was bad enough that Archer accompanied Rose everywhere he could. Of course, he was only doing what should have been Grey’s duty. Trystan was a first-class flirt. All the little blighter had to do was bat the stupidly thick lashes that framed his impossibly blue eyes and women lost their reason as well as their knickers.

Of course, who had taught him that? He had Grey’s way with women and Archer’s wit. Or rather, he had the way with women that Grey used to have. And Tryst treated his lovers a damned sight better—or at least Grey hoped he did.

Thunder rolled in the distance as he rubbed his fingers over his scar. No one in America would have to know who he was. He wouldn’t have to hide his face. He could go out, feel the sun on his face as he walked down the street—not just in his own garden. He could go to parties and dance. He could go to clubs and gamble.

Maybe, just maybe he could make some friends that weren’t his immediate kin. Of course the scandal of his past would follow him, it always did. But these Americans didn’t seem to care so much as the English did. Surely, he could find a little respite there.

Now, if only he wasn’t a duke with responsibilities. He’d be on a boat by the end of the week. Archer would accuse him of running away, but Archer could go frig himself.

Grey smiled. He could leave Arch to take care of all of his ducal duties. That could be amusing.

A knock on the door interrupted his rare good humor. “Come in,” he called. He didn’t bother to don the mask that lay on the table beside him. It was evening and he was home alone. Unless an unexpected visitor showed up there was no need to adhere the leather to his face with the spirit gum that sometimes irritated his skin and was difficult to remove.

It was Westford, of course. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but one of the groomsmen just ran up to the house to say that Lady Rose is in the stables.”

Grey frowned, his gaze jumping to the clock on the mantel. “She and her mother aren’t due back for at least another hour.”

“Apparently the young lady came home alone, Your Grace. By way of hired hack.” The way the butler spoke one would think Rose drove the vehicle herself—naked. But that wasn’t what had Grey on his feet.

Something had happened. Something that made Rose come home alone, leaving her mother behind. And instead of coming into the house and talking to him, or even going to her room to be alone, she had gone to the stables.

For a moment—and only one heart-stopping, gut-wrenching moment—he thought she might mean to take one of the horses out in this weather. The rain was coming down hard, the thunder rolling closer as flashes of lightning lit up the sky. But then he realized that Rose was not foolish enough to go riding in a storm.

She was with Heathcliff, her puppy.

He didn’t claim to be an expert on women. Even he didn’t have that much arrogance. But one thing he did know was that if a woman went running to an animal for comfort, then something awful had happened.

“Thank you, Westford. I’ll take care of it.”

The butler bowed his head and left the room.

Grey didn’t bother going in search of a jacket, or even a hat. He was in nothing but trousers, boots, and his shirtsleeves as he threw open a window and jumped the short distance to the ground. His mother would certainly have something to say about the habit he was making of leaping out windows, but they were his windows and he was a duke, so he could do what he bloody well wanted.

Rain struck him like hundreds upon thousands of tiny, wet palms—slapping his face and shoulders as he ran toward the stables. His hair and clothes were soaked in seconds, water streaming down his cheeks and back. Thank God it was relatively warm.

By the time he reached the stables his hair was plastered to his head and his linen shirt was so transparent and stuck so closely to his flesh that he might as well not be wearing one at all.

He stood just inside the doors, dripping on the floor. The smells of hay and horse rushed to greet him but he ignored them as he slowly moved into the interior, down the wide corridor between the rows of stalls.

He heard sobbing.

Two young grooms stood on one side, obviously uncertain as to what they should do. Manners told them to be still and quiet, but duty dictated there was work to be done.

Grey made the decision for them, slanting them a quick glance and jerking his head in the direction of the back rooms. Twin expressions of gratefulness relaxed the youngsters’ faces, and they bowed their chins as they set their tools aside and quickly disappeared into the darkness.

He watched them go before continuing on. Rose might have captured their attention with her obvious duress, but Grey wasn’t going to let her become entertainment for his servants. Satisfied that they were indeed alone, he moved quietly toward the stall where the puppies were kept.

His heart broke at the sight that greeted him.

Rose sat on the hay, heedless of her beautiful gown. She looked like a princess—Cinderella forced to leave the ball, but not yet returned to her impoverished state. She had Heathcliff in her lap, holding him in her arms as she bent over his furry body, sobbing into his silky fur. The other puppies were snuggled against her, or trying to clamor up onto her lap as well. Their mother lay on her side, her head on Rose’s foot, as though even she was trying to offer some kind of comfort.

Grey didn’t say anything. He opened the door and entered the stall, closing the gate behind him so none of the dogs could get out. Then, he sat down across from Rose on the dry hay. The other puppies immediately ran to him, eager for attention. Heathcliff stayed in his mistress’s lap, and old Maz kept her head where it was. Her only reaction to Grey’s intrusion was a slight shift of her gaze.

He embraced the puppies, patting each of them as they vied for his touch, little tails wagging so hard their entire arse-ends waved from side to side.

“What happened?” he asked softly, after a moment’s silence.

Heathcliff lifted his head at the same time Rose did. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears. A piece of hay clung to her chin and stuck to her hair.

She looked beautiful. Achingly so.

“You’re wet,” she said, her voice thick. She wasn’t impressed with his arrival, that much was clear.

“I commanded the rain to stop before I left the house but it didn’t listen.” She didn’t smile at his poor attempt at humor. “Why the tears, Rosie?”

She stared at him a moment, before returning her attention to her puppy. She ran her hand over his silky head. “Lord Battenfield graced us with a production of
Timon of Athens.”

Grey winced. “That’s an awful play.”

“Actually, it was fairly amusing until Mama left the room in tears.”

He went still at the harshness of her tone—the sharp pain of it. Oh, shite. His gaze locked with hers. “Then what happened?”

Rose sneered at him, or perhaps it was his imagination, it was so slight. “Why didn’t you tell me my father’s death wasn’t an accident?”

How was it possible to feel as though he’d been both kicked in the chest and relieved of a great burden at the same time? “He asked me not to.”

Her fine brows drew together in an anguished frown. “You lied to me. I asked you if it was an accident you said it was.”

He nodded. “Yes. I kept my word to your father and I lied to you.”

She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. “How did he die? It wasn’t a riding accident, was it?”

Grey shook his head. “No.”

“How did he do it?”

“Rose…”

“Tell me, damn it!” she yelled. Heathcliff squirmed in her arms, but she held him close. “I deserve to know. Everyone else in London knows!”

She was right—not that everyone in London knew, but that she deserved the truth. “He poisoned himself. I found him as he was dying. It was too late to save him.” It was suddenly very important to him that she know that. “I tried.”

Fresh tears filled her eyes. Her hands fell limply to her sides. Released, Heathcliff looked around as though not sure what to do. He licked Rose’s chin and jumped off her lap to join his siblings at his mother’s belly. “I can’t believe he’d leave us like that.”

Grey hadn’t been able to believe it either. He knew how much Charles loved his wife and daughter. “He said he was too ashamed to face either of you.”

“So he thought leaving us alone would be better? That facing the scandal of poverty and suicide would be preferable to having him with us?” The fury in her gaze was blunted only by sheer, naked pain. “He left us to face the shame, and you to clean it up.”

“He thought it was the best for everyone.” And of course, it had been too late for Grey to convince him otherwise. He’d never forgive himself for that. Never. He almost hadn’t answered his friend’s summons that night—he’d been too busy sitting at home alone feeling sorry for himself as he often had in those days. His scar had healed by that time, but the scab had run so much deeper than just his skin. If he hadn’t been such a prick, he might have gotten there sooner. Might have gotten there in time to stop Charles.

Rose laughed—bitterly. “And to think I called
you
a coward.” Then her face crumpled and she began to sob in earnest. “My father was the greatest coward of all.”

Grey rose up onto his knees, puppies scattering as he did so. He reached for her, drawing her into the circle of his arms as she cried so heartbreakingly hard. She was warm against his damp flesh, and she didn’t seem to care that his clothing was wet. She clung to him as though her life depended on him, adding to the dampness at his shoulder with the hot salt of her tears.

She was killing him.

So when she raised her face, it seemed only natural to kiss her. To try to offer her whatever comfort he could. Her grief made him impotent, unable to imagine that he could do anything to ease it. His fingers bit into her waist as she held him, kissing him with a fervor that bespoke so much desperation.

When she jerked away, he let her. And when she hit him, he took it. But when she looked at him as though she didn’t know who he was anymore, his heart cried out in confusion.

And when she jumped to her feet and ran from the stall, Grey didn’t think about what was right or wrong, or what he should or shouldn’t do. He listened to his heart.

He ran after her.

Rose didn’t make it far. The rain made a soggy mess out of her gown, dragging it down around her shoulders, soaking the skirts so that they pulled at her like a dozen strong hands. The sodden ground was slippery beneath her flimsy slippers, and it only took one foolish misstep to send her sprawling.

She tried to catch herself, but her hands hit the grass hard and slipped out from under her. She hit the ground hard, her cheek striking the wet dirt. The pain, and the humiliation of knowing that Grey was right behind her and had witnessed her clumsiness, only served to make her cry once more.

If she could have kicked herself she would have. Inside, she sniffed, wiped away the water that threatened to drip off the tip of her nose, and began pushing herself upright.

“Rose!” Grey was suddenly there beside her. She couldn’t make out his expression in the dark, but his tone was sharp with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” she replied honestly as he gently helped her to her feet. Blasted bustles and narrow skirts made it almost impossible for a woman to regain her footing.

But she didn’t remain on her feet for long. As soon as he had her upright Grey swept her up into his arms and began striding toward the looming structure of Ryeton House, the lights of which looked so warm and inviting in the pouring rain.

“I can walk.”

He ignored her.

“You should make me walk after behaving as I did in the stables.”

“You were upset.” He said it as though it was a fitting excuse.

She blinked against the rain. “I shouldn’t have struck you. Forgive me.”

“Think no more of it.”

Her arms around his neck, her chest against his, Rose fought to control her body’s awareness of his. It felt so good to be held in his arms, to have him treat her as though she were fragile and delicate.

“You can’t carry me into the house. The servants will see.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

He said nothing, and she felt the stiffness of his body as he continued to carry her.

“Now what?” she demanded. “You play my knight errant because you think I cannot accept the truth about my father? Will you take me to your bed and fuck me because you feel sorry for me?” The word felt harsh and bitter on her tongue, but she wanted to shock him. She was angry because her father had practically forced Grey to take responsibility for her and her mother. She was a burden to him, one that he wanted to be rid of, even though he liked having her in his bed.

“Don’t talk like that.” His voice was tight as he stepped up onto the terrace. Ambient light from the house illuminated the sharp, wet angles of his face, and the disapproval in his gaze.

“That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?” She reached for the handle of the French doors, accepting that he wasn’t about to put her down. Fine, let the servants see. Let them talk.

He shot her a narrow look as he carried her over the threshold into the blessedly dry and warm interior of the house. “Not between us, Rose. Never with us.”

Rose’s throat was suddenly dry. How did he always know exactly what to say to confuse her even more? Just when she thought she knew what she meant to him, what he thought of her, he went and said something so undeniably wonderful that her mind began to whirl.

“Whatever you want to call it,” she muttered, “I don’t want it to happen just because you pity me.”

“I don’t pity you. I regret keeping the truth from you, and I’m sorry you found out the way you did, but I do not pity you.”

“Good.” Her jaw set mulishly. But if he didn’t pity her, did that mean he wasn’t going to bed her again? Because—oh God, she was awful—she
really
hoped he would. It didn’t matter what lies she told herself, or how much she tried to be practical. She wanted Grey.

Oh, she knew that she would be another man’s bride. Nothing short of a miracle could change that, but only in Grey’s arms did she feel as though she truly belonged. It was foolish really, because he didn’t want her—not permanently.

Thankfully none of the servants were milling about, so they didn’t witness their master carrying her through the hall and up the stairs as though she weighed no more than a child. No one saw how the two of them were soaked to the skin, or how she was covered in dirt. That was good, because they might wonder how she got to be covered in dirt and that would lead to speculation.

And God knew she couldn’t afford any more scandal in her life at this juncture. It was amazing that others accepted her into their homes as it was. Still, it had been years since her father’s death, and even more since Grey’s attack. Perhaps now she was considered interesting—a tragic creature touched by scandal but never really of it.

He carried her all the way to her bedroom, where poor Heather sat by a low fire reading a book. The maid jumped to her feet as the door opened, and looked suitably horrified to see the Duke of Ryeton stomp into the room with Rose in his amazingly strong arms.

“Run a hot bath,” he ordered as he gently set Rose on her feet. “And have Cook send up tea.”

Heather bobbed a deep and somewhat frantic curtsey. “Yes, Your Grace. Right away.”

As the discomposed maid scurried off to do his bidding, Grey set his hands on Rose’s shoulders. His strong fingers tugged until she turned to face him. It was difficult to meet his gaze in the bright light, especially after all that had transpired between them. She felt raw under his scrutiny. Chafed and brittle, on the verge of tears or laughter, or perhaps both.

He cast a quick glance over her shoulder as the sound of running water came from the adjoining bath.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” The faded blue of his eyes shone with sincerity, and regret.

“Which time?” She wasn’t trying to be snide or cruel, just curious.

A ghost of a smile curved the unforgiving lines of his lips. “Tonight.”

Good lord, she couldn’t swallow, her throat was suddenly so tight. Did he actually mean that he wished he had been at the Battenfields’? Out in public? For her benefit?

“Lord Battenfield’s thespian endeavors would no doubt make you reconsider, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same. Thank you.”

He regarded her for a moment, with an expression she didn’t even bother trying to decipher. She was simply too tired to puzzle out what was going through his head. And yet, if he hauled her against him and sucked the tongue right out of her head, she wouldn’t put up a fight. Not now.

“Good night, Rose.”

“Good night, Grey.” There was still so much left unsaid, but she wouldn’t know where to begin, and right now she just wanted to sink into a hot bath and then climb into bed and forget this night ever happened.

No doubt the gossips would be buzzing about it tomorrow. The mere thought was enough to make her want to hide under her bed and never come out.

He left her with a chaste kiss on the forehead. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Heather appeared once more to assist her in disrobing. Once she was naked, she dismissed her maid. The girl was obviously concerned about her, and Rose appreciated it, but she wasn’t in the mood for companionship or friendship wrapped in servitude. She wanted to be alone.

She soaked in the clove-scented water until it began to cool and the tips of her fingers were like prunes. Only then did she climb out, dry herself with soft towels, and then slip into a nightgown and wrapper. She shivered as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Heather had left it warming by the fire for her and it vanquished any thought of chill remaining in her bones.

Tea waited for her on the small round table by the chair near the fire. Rose poured herself a cup and sat down to drink it. She thought of picking up her book, but her mind was too restless to read, yet too numb to think. She sat in the comfortable chair, her feet tucked up beneath her, sipping the sweet, hot tea.

The soft knock that came upon her door a few minutes later was not unexpected. “Come in, Mama.”

And it was indeed her mother. She came into the room, her shoulders bowed, her face looking ravaged and aged far beyond her years. Any thoughts of harboring a grudge went up the chimney at the sight of her. She looked devastated. And yet, unlike Rose, she’d stayed behind at the party, facing those who would whisper about her. Her mother might be a liar, but she was no coward. Rose would do well to aspire to the same. Her mother never ran away from anything.

Rose smiled. “Would you like some tea?”