A Duke's Temptation (24 page)

She detected the rustling of papers and several soft, quiet footsteps. She wet her bottom lip. The rapscallions were lying in wait. Should she act surprised, dismayed, or—

She opened the second door and stared, laughter slowly escaping her as she recognized the assembly of scoundrels who gathered in the candlelight. “You . . . you . . .”

Marie-Elaine stood, shoulder propped to the wall, in a black periwig and the brocade costume of a page as she read a narrative to her small audience. “ ‘So, here, ladies and gentlemen, is our hero, Michael Francis, Lord Wickbury, heir to the earldom of Wickbury, which has been confiscated by Cromwell’s forces. The old earl and his gentle wife, Lord Michael’s parents, are thought to have been drowned at sea by his evil,
eeevil
half brother, Sir Renwick Hexworthy, who worships the darkness and covets everything Michael protects, including his magnificent horse Bucephalus and the lady who behaves like a lowborn tavern wench—’ ”

“Enough!” Samuel exclaimed, striding across the room.

Except that Samuel wasn’t Samuel at all. He was the Earl of Wickbury from the gallery balcony—hero in a half-unbuttoned linen shirt, crimson satin doublet, and a pair of straight breeches that dropped into the cuffs of his leather riding boots. On his left sleeve hung a curl of hair wrapped in thick black ribbon.

Lily’s eyes traveled up his bare throat to the white-plumed cavalier’s hat that overshadowed his face. She had always wondered how Lord Wickbury kept it on during his adventures. But Samuel wore the dashing costume well . . . so well, in fact, that it took Marie-Elaine’s discreet cough to terminate her musings.

“May I continue?” the maid asked, her eyes bright with mischief.

Samuel looked at Lily. “If Miss Boscastle doesn’t mind.”

Lily nodded. “By all means.”

“ ‘As our story concludes,
again
,’” Marie-Elaine continued, “ ‘in the castle of that villainous wizard Sir Renwick Hexworthy,’ who as I have stated happens to be Lord Wickbury’s half brother, although his origins have never been logically explained—”

“No more editorials, please,” the duke snapped, sliding his sword back into its sheath.

Lily seated herself on the stool, startled to notice Bickerstaff behind the dressing screen in a Roundhead’s tunic. Two similarly garbed figures peered out at her from behind the cheval glass. Emmett and Ernest? And the woman in a tavern wench’s smock posed awkwardly on Lily’s bed? That couldn’t be Mrs. Halford playing Juliette’s part? She shook her head, so intrigued she almost missed the conclusion of Marie-Elaine’s narration.

“ ‘—and even though Lord Wickbury realizes he has been led into another ruse, he is willing to sacrifice himself to save Lady Juliette’s life.’ ” She paused. “As well as her alleged virtue.”

The duke gave her a dark look. “I would prefer you read from the manuscript verbatim. I have never made any such reference.”

“But one does get that impression,” Lily murmured bravely.

Samuel turned to regard her in the silence that followed her observation. She forced herself to meet his stare. She had been a
Wickbury
reader before she became his lover. What was the point in all this melodrama if she couldn’t voice an honest opinion? Was she supposed to sit back and merely admire?

At length Samuel ended the silence. If she had offended his artistic temperament, he was not going to comment on it. “We will answer the question of Lady Juliette’s virtue, or lack thereof, in a forthcoming chapter.”

Lily folded her hands in her lap, listening intently.

He said, “The problem that I, or Wickbury, rather, has is how to fight nine soldiers on a castle parapet.”

“He always wins his swordfights,” Lily said.

“I have written this scene a dozen times,” Samuel informed her, “and Wickbury always ends up grievously injured or left to molder in the dungeon.”

Marie-Elaine cleared her throat. “Or in the tavern wine cellar, depending on the author’s whims.”

“Didn’t another prisoner help him escape in the last book?” Lily inquired with a thoughtful frown.

He smiled tersely. “This is different. Lord Wickbury is willing to give up everything for love. And so is Juliette. He might be ready to hang up his sword and settle down, even if that is the death of him.”

 

 

 

The master and staff of St. Aldwyn House replayed the vigorous episode for five nights in a row and the duke was still displeased. He swore inside and out that with each reenactment he had made drastic changes to the manuscript. From the little Lily was allowed to read, it seemed as if he’d altered only a word or two.

At some point Bickerstaff suggested a swordfight to rouse the reader from whatever stuporous effect Samuel’s tendency to wax poetic had induced. But Samuel complained that if he heeded this advice, he would either not have a living character left at the end of the book, or the survivors would all be maimed and moaning their soliloquies.

Strangely enough, though, Lily began to perceive holes in his tightly woven prose that had previously escaped her in the excitement of How Will Lord Wickbury Conquer This Obstacle? Or perhaps she would never be able to read his writing with an objective eye again.

But on the sixth night, he read Lily a page that riveted her to her chair.

“ ‘At the last moment an unseen force intervened and prevented Renwick from violating the woman in his bed. There was another spirit in the room. There was a power that reached beneath his spine and . . .’”

Samuel paused. His voice resonated in the silence.

“Well, don’t quit now, for heaven’s sake,” Lily said in distress. “My fingers and toes have gone numb from the suspense. What power could stop Renwick’s self-destruction? He has forsaken God. The devil has already taken him to hell and back a hundred times.”

“Do you want to know?” Samuel sounded so matter-of-fact that Lily could have wrung his neck. “What I mean is—do I have the reader’s attention? Would you put down the book at this point to take a nap or make a pot of tea?”

“What force is in the room?” she asked through her teeth.

“His sister,” he said. “She has clawed herself from the grave for revenge.”

Lily shivered. “What a twisted mind you have.”

“Do you object?”

“Object? Unless it involves blood, I cannot wait for more.”

Indeed, who would have imagined that Miss Lily Boscastle would engage Lord Wickbury in a fencing match? That he would chase her up his winding staircase at sword point? And that she would step into Sir Renwick’s buckled shoes and fend off his advances with a magic wand? The rapt servants in the hall below became Cromwell’s soldiers.

As to be expected, Lily never won these duels. Samuel inevitably danced her up into the dark gallery with his foil and demanded that she disarm. A month ago she would not have had the stamina to keep up with him. Housekeeping, among other things, had strengthened her arm, although she doubted she would ever be the sword master that he was.

“Six nights,” she said in protest, dropping the long hazel wand on the gallery carpet. “I understand that you are devoted to your craft, but this is carrying authenticity too far.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Do you fault me for trying to weave a few threads of truth into these stories?”

“The truth,” she said, finally catching her breath, “is that you are an unabashed blackguard taking advantage of his housekeeper in an open gallery.”

He glanced down at the small group assembled at the foot of the stairs. “I’ll remind you that for the purpose of the plot, this is not a gallery, but a parapet.”

“A parapet! Then perhaps that is the very problem. Have you ever considered acting this chapter out on a genuine castle walkway?”

His mouth firmed. “I do not have a castle at my convenience.”

“Yes, you do. We passed it on the day you brought me here. You told me that you were the owner, in fact, unless that was another one of your stories.”

He drew away, his expression strained. “It wasn’t. But the interior was destroyed by a fire two decades ago that took my entire family, except for Alice and me. I’m not sure how safe it is. To be honest, I haven’t had the heart to visit there in years.”

“I didn’t realize,” she whispered.

“How could you?”

“And the rumors that the castle is haunted? Did
you
invent those, too?”

He smiled grimly. “It was a method to discourage the morbid minded. Curses, ghosts rising from the crypt to take revenge. To a certain extent it has worked. At least, I haven’t been tempted to set foot in the place again. I’ve begun to write a story about its history but can never bring myself to finish it.” He shook his head. “How did we get on this subject, Lily?”

“It was my fault. I distracted you.”

“Are you certain that I have not overexerted you?”

“I will have a few aches in the morning.” Although she was more liable to injure him than the other way around. Samuel was too skilled at swordplay to make a clumsy move.

“How,” she asked him, “did a man who spent years at a desk become so adept at fencing?”

He answered with his typical modesty. “I spent years studying under a master swordsman.”

“Angelo?”

“No. His name is Christopher Fenton.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“I predict he will be famous one day. He is highly regarded by society gentlemen who seek his tutelage.”

Her eyes lit up. “I think my brother might have spoken of him.”

He propped his arm against the gallery railing, appraising her in amusement. “Has anyone ever told you that you look comely in a black silk cloak?”

Before she could answer, she was in his arms, uncaring of their audience below, that the kisses he showered on her were more dangerous than the duel they had fought. “You,” he whispered, drawing her down the hall with one hand, the other unlacing the bows of her bodice, “are the one who will force me to my knees.”

She felt a rush of giddiness as they reached his bedroom door. His body pushed at hers. She recognized his heat, the hard curve of his arousal. His kisses filled her with a wicked compulsion to lift her skirts and pleasure him where they stood. The impulse shocked her. His eyes met hers in ruthless anticipation.

Infuriating. Fascinating. Epic hero or classical villain? In private, and at his best, the Duke of Gravenhurst was both.

D
uring the next few days, Lily decided that Samuel was a devil—one who followed his conscience, but a devil nonetheless. Demanding at times. Sacrificing at others. He was dedicated to what he believed and inclined to dismiss any opinions that countered his own. He felt deeply. He loved and worked with an inhuman intensity she struggled to understand. He had given her the marriage contract that his solicitor had drawn up in London. Lily found nothing to edit in this work.

She learned to interrupt him at her peril. His office was like a cave of wonders, so charmingly and untidily distracting she was shocked that he could finish a sentence.

Lyre-bound chairs occupied the four French rococopaneled recesses. Good conquered evil in ornate marble friezes and the plasterwork that surmounted bookshelves overflowing with poetry and obscure works. Lily would not have been surprised to find a secret passage to another realm in the stygian Gothic fireplace that was never lit.

Maybe in time she would not be shocked when she knocked at his office door with his coffee, only to hear him reply, “Not right now. I’m in the middle of a murder.” Or, “If a maid were going to dismember her mistress or master, how would she go about it?”

Questions like that became commonplace. He often drew the household into his musings about the book. Fortunately for his delicate readers, few of these gruesome reflections found their way to print. Or perhaps they did and Lily had trained herself to skip over such passages.

Her concern for his health, however, overrode her fear of disturbing him. He ate little. He worked with the windows open to the mist, barefoot, in a thin shirt, and his hair often damp from holding his head under the pump to stimulate his thoughts. Sometimes she suspected he stayed up all night to work and that was what gave him his haunted look.

After days of observing his habits, she realized one morning that he had fallen asleep at his desk. She put her hand on his shoulder and shook him in hesitation. “Samuel. Your Grace. Did you even go to bed?”

He stared up at her with an indolent smile curving his mouth. “I don’t remember.”

At least he recognized her.

“You’ve moved all the chairs around,” she said in chagrin. “And your face is . . .” Dark angles. Masculine hollows. A vulnerability that she might walk through hell to heal. “What is it? It’s not that scene again?”

“No. I’ve been forced to write past it. But I can sense another character in the wings.”

“Friend or enemy?”

“Enemy,” he said, frowning.

“What will Wickbury do?”

“Kill him.” He smiled. “What else?”

Lily felt a shiver. She had to wonder why he enjoyed writing about murders and acts of revenge. She skimmed the most bloodthirsty parts of his books. Yet other readers relished them. She was beginning to see how his mind worked, and it frightened her.

Still, some aspects of his behavior she would never understand. While she had come to accept tidying around the maps, books, and artifacts that surrounded his desk, apple cores and animal discharges were another thing. She screamed hysterically the afternoon she discovered a trail of mouse droppings leading from his office to the adjoining library. She could not bring herself to scoop up the disgusting things in her hands. So, for a temporary solution, she kicked the tiny pellets against the wall.

When she stepped back with a shudder, she trod on a small mound she had missed, and she screamed again. Everyone in the house came running—the maids, down from ladders where they’d been cleaning the windows, the footmen steadying them below.