All About the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 4) (13 page)

“I’d be concerned your wits had gone wandering.”

He laughed. “Oh Alfred. . . Will you at least tell me your name?”

“No.”

“You do know I’m a duke.”

“I am aware, Your Grace.”

“And dukes do get what they want.”

“Yes, but I guarantee that you will not want me all the nights of my life as you so suggest. You will, in fact, one day be quite happy to see me depart. Isn’t that the way all love affairs end?”

“Usually, but you’re not usual.”

“Neither are you,” she said softly. “But I won’t marry you, Your Grace. I can’t tell you how kind I think you are or how honored I am that you ask. But I will never marry. Ever.”

“Never is a very dangerous word.”

“So is marriage.”

***

I
f Nicholas had been a man given to clichés, he would have sworn the proverbial rug had just been yanked from beneath him. But he was not, nor was he a man easily brought to stunned silence. It had never occurred to him that she might say no.

Never once had he been on the brink of proposing and the words “will you marry me?” had never crossed his lips before. Still, as a duke, he’d been absolutely certain of an affirmative reply.

As with all things, Alfred had done the unexpected. And in that moment, he truly understood that while he was drawn to her, that he felt an absolute bond with her, that she was
his.
However, she might not feel the same and, worse, he knew nothing about her. Not really.

She plucked at the linen sheet. “Should I go?”

The simple question was almost as shocking as her refusal. “Go where?” he asked.

Biting her lower lip, she appeared to be gauging his response to her vow. Finally, she replied, “Away?”

“Away?” he echoed and then wished he could immediately retract the asinine repetition. For suddenly, he felt that, somehow, his control of this situation had completely slipped from his grasp. It was now in the hands of his serving boy who couldn’t be as of yet twenty years of age.

Never before had he felt so entirely unlike a duke of the realm. Is this how regular men felt? He’d always known his title had secured him with a certain degree of entitlement and assurance that his wishes be acceded to. Still, he’d always thought ladies liked him because he listened and enjoyed their company. Now, he wondered if he was completely deluded. Or worse, was he utterly arrogant? Was this not about him at all? Had she no thought for him except the pleasures and diversions he might teach her?

Never before had he been inclined to regret a moment of past debauchery. Now?

“Nicholas?”

He shook his head. “No, you mustn’t go unless you wish it. I cannot make you marry me. Well, I suppose I could. Somehow. I am a duke.”

She winced. “But you would never do something so unsporting?”

He snorted. “Honor is but one of my many names.”

“Well then. That’s settled. I shall stay and we shall enjoy each other until one or both of us become bored. . . That is, if you wish me to stay on such terms?”

“Yes, Alfred, I wish it. You must stay. . . For as long as neither of us grows bored of the other.”

God, the words nearly stuck in his throat. Had he turned into the woman? Biting back protestations that he should never grow bored of her? That he should never wish her to be away from his bed? It certainly did sound like the feminine line in his affairs.

Aside from the fact that he was far from bored of her, there was no way in hell or heaven that he was letting Alfred leave his estate. After all, where would she go? Had she any money saved? Any friends?

Though she was clearly brave and bold and he knew some dark shadow had touched her life, he was fairly certain that for all that, Alfred was unaware of what a truly cruel place this world could be. He’d protect her from that if it killed him. If it made her hate him.

Nothing would harm her. At least, as a duke, he could assure that.

O
ver the next few days Allegra felt the tension of the marriage proposal fade. It had been a terrible few moments when she’d been afraid she’d have to leave the place and person that had made her the happiest she’d ever been. Some deep, deep voice had whispered in her ear that perhaps marriage to him would be different. But therein lay treachery. No matter how wonderful Nicholas was, if she married him, she lost any independence she had. She became property. She lost her personhood and that was simply something she couldn’t do.

Not when all she had to do was close her eyes and see her sister, pale, broken, and lost to herself.

So, it was with a bold determination to pretend he had never asked her to be his chattel, even if he had said it in much nicer terms, that she’d carried on since.

Each day had been better than the last as they’d wandered and ridden over remote parts of his estate. Nicholas had made it clear that they could spend little time in his castle unless it was in his room. He didn’t wish to flout their closeness before his staff and, frankly, she admired him for it.

She knew it made him uncomfortable that anyone might suspect that he’d taken advantage of a young member of his staff. So, she did her best not to grin at him or stare at his beautiful physique when they were in his family home.

Oh, but when then they went out! The luxury of touching him as often as she pleased was almost too much bear. As they hiked the rough terrain, he held her hand. As they sat upon the beach, gazing out the wild winter sea, he circled his arm about her waist.

And all the while they talked. They talked of art and poetry, politics and history, of the never-ending tension with France and whether the continent would be enveloped in war. They talked of everything but her personal life. Every night had been spent in his bed. Though they slept little, surprisingly they weren’t terribly tired when the rays of dawn crept in each morning as if all they needed to renew themselves was time in each other’s arms.

And to her absolute delight, he had not pressed her. He’d stopped asking her for her name.

Every now and again, she wished she could tell him. Because truly, it would be such a delight to hear her name just once from his lips.

But even though Nicholas had seemingly accepted her denial of his proposal, she had no wish for him to know her name or her father’s title. She had a sneaking suspicion that he’d be unable to resist making some sort of recompense to her family for her ruination. Even if she had charged into ruination’s arms.

She bent down and plucked a small, bold snowdrop from the ground. Waiting for Nicholas to come down from the house so they could begin their daily adventure was no hardship when the world they were in was so beautiful. She lifted the snowdrop to her lips, savoring the delicate feel of the petals against her skin. Who knew what they might do today?

“Lady Allegra?”

The name sent a cold shock down her spine and she tensed. His deep, rumbly voice seemed deeper yet, speaking those syllables. There certainly was nothing light about them. She closed her eyes, desperate to steady herself.

Slowly, she turned.

Nicholas stood a few feet away, his beautiful face stricken. Stricken? How could that be? Why would he be wounded by speaking her name?

Yet, somehow, she knew he was. Pain seemed to etch every surface of his body. And suddenly she was afraid. Not of him, but of the gaping lie that had lain between them and was now, quite exposed.

Could she deny it? Her mind raced. Could she pretend she had no idea who he meant?

Her gaze slipped down to the parchment between his fingers. She could try to lie but she doubted he’d believe her and then he would hate her for thinking so little of him.

“Yes?” she finally said.

“So, it is you?”

She gave a tight nod.

His brow furrowed. “Your father is the Earl of Portmund?”

Just hearing her father’s title sent a wave of regret through her. It was happening far too fast. She could feel the happiness of the last days slipping away like the tide rushing out to the sea.

She gave another tight nod.

“Forgive me, Alfred, if I seem a trifle slow, but I know your father. Is he a good masker?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to follow his meaning. “I don’t understand.”

“I want you to feel that you can tell me anything.”

“I do,” she said though the words didn’t come easily.

“But clearly you don’t. You wouldn’t tell me your name and now, I suspect there must be some dreadful family secret, one you feel you cannot share, to make you run away from a father with such a solid reputation. Tell me he is not as he appears. Tell me you ran away because. . .”

She lifted her chin. The pain she’d seen in his eyes. It was fear for her. Fear that she’d been harmed. “Nicholas. My father is not a bad man. He is a man of his time.”

“Then someone else. Your mother? A man. Who was hurting you to make you abandon your family? You can trust me.”

Trust? She sighed, a ragged sound. There was no trust between them. She supposed that she was the real reason for that. She’d never trusted him after all. “How did you discover my name?”  

He tensed and, for a moment, she was certain he was going to refuse to tell her.

At last he lifted the letter. “I wrote to a friend in London.”

“A friend?”

“A gossip.”

“She must be very good. To discover the name of the young woman you were looking for.”

“Well, it was far too easy, I think. I knew roughly when you disappeared and red hair is hard to miss.”

Without thought, she lifted a hand to her short locks and she gave a mirthless smile. “Of course. So, you asked when a young lady of my complexion suddenly vanished from town?”

“Exactly. She got back immediately stating that the Earl of Portmund’s daughter had been dancing at balls, if not with great enthusiasm, at least with great skill, then suddenly she was gone. Apparently to Italy.”

“Ah. Italy, a region which hides so much of England’s sin.”

“So, it would seem. So then, will you tell me?” he asked softly.

“What?”

“What you ran from? I will help you, you know. With whatever it is. I can protect you.”

Tears stung her eyes. How would he ever understand? But Nicholas had understood her when no one else had. Perhaps, she could trust him. Perhaps, she should at least try. “My father is an honorable man, Nicholas. He’s as traditional and conservative and as loyal to the crown as anyone might hope or wish.”

“And at home?” he prompted.

“A good man. A distant man. A man who finds powerful men for his daughters to marry.”

Silence stretched out between them as Nicholas seemed to be thinking on her words.

“Do forgive me,” he began quietly, “but am I to understand that you ran away from your parents because a marriage had been arranged for you?”

She blanched. There was something terribly cold in his voice. Not at all like the Nicholas she had known. “Yes.”

Nicholas said quickly, “And the man is blackguard of course.”

“No.”

“No?” he echoed.

Allegra licked her lips. “As I understand, Viscount Ponsonby is everything that he should be.”

A dry laugh rolled from his lips. “Ponsonby? That’s who you ran from?”

She shifted on her boots. The accord that had been between them was gone. Suddenly. In an instant. Nicholas was staring at her as if she were a total stranger.

“I’ve never met Viscount Ponsonby,” she said, “but it seems you have.”

“The lad is as gentle as a lamb. Dim as sundown, of course, but I don’t think he’d harm a fly.”

“I couldn’t marry, Nicholas.”

“You couldn’t marry
him
?”

“I couldn’t
marry
. You know I’ve made a vow. It’s why I refused you.”

“Are you sure it’s not simply some sort of childish whim on your part?”

The statement hung between them and she almost couldn’t believe he’d said it. In fact, she desperately wished it would disappear. But it didn’t and he had, indeed, said such a thing. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve abandoned your parents. You’ve left them utterly in the lurch because they wish you to marry a titled, decent, wealthy man.” His words were flat, but his entire stance seemed to suggest bated fury. Suddenly he bit out, “Do they even know you’re safe? Do you write them often?”

“They know I’m safe,” she defended, shocked by his anger.

“How?” He stretched the word out.

She’d felt so solid. So strong in her desperation to run away, to save herself when Juliana could not be saved, but now, standing here under his imperious glare, her certainty began to shake.

Allegra squared her shoulders, refusing to be cowed. “I wrote them when I left and I’ve arranged messages.”

He stared blankly as if her assurance meant nothing. “Please. Please help me understand why you’ve done this.”

Her insides suddenly tangled as his coldness seemed to suggest that she was wrong. So very wrong for what she had done. And given how much she had come to respect him, his sudden withdrawal of his easy friendship shook her badly.

“Nicholas,” she began, “I don’t know if you can understand. But after my sister died, I knew I could never marry. Marriage killed her.”

His face softened for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

At least there was still some kindness between them. She wanted to smile at that, but she couldn’t. The moment was too severe and she had a sinking feeling that whatever accord had been between them was about to be permanently severed. “Thank you.”

“How did she die?” he asked softly.

“In childbirth.”

His face remained blank, a slate in which one could read nothing. She longed to know what he was thinking.

At last he ventured gently, “And you are afraid of dying in childbed?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry Allegra, but I still fail to understand.”

“She died in childbirth, but that’s not what killed her, not really.”

“What did then?”

“Her marriage.”

“The viscount was a cruel man?” Nicholas asked softly.

“No,” she said then frowned. “Yes. How do I explain to you that I watched sister disappear?”