What the Duke Doesn't Know (24 page)

James found he couldn't wait for the evening to see Kawena. He was too eager, and knowing she was right there, a few streets away, was too tempting. He knocked on her door in the early afternoon and was admitted without question by a neat housemaid and escorted to a parlor.

Kawena sat on a sofa before long windows. Sunlight gilded her dark hair and rose-pink gown, and threw her lovely face into shadow. James might have taken a moment to savor her delicate beauty. But Anthony Haskins sat beside her, near enough to touch, though of course he wasn't. Fear and jealousy surged through James. He scarcely noticed Flora and Mrs. Runyon in the chairs opposite.

“Lord James,” said Kawena.

She didn't sound pleased to see him. Or not pleased. Indeed, he couldn't tell anything at all from her tone.

Behind him, the housemaid returned with a laden tray. “Will you have a glass of wine with us?” Kawena added.

It sounded almost as if she and Haskins were the hosts, and he an unexpected caller. But no, she hadn't meant that. It was just that he was standing there, looking at the two of them. Haskins gazed at him with bland calculation. Was it the look of a confident rival? Had he established his position with Kawena so quickly?

James's heart thumped painfully in his chest as he imagined what it would be like to lose Kawena to another man. He loved her. She was exquisite, unique, everything one could want in a woman. If he actually lost his chance with her, his future was empty.

“Would you care to sit down?” Kawena said.

Everyone was looking at him. Even the maid with the tray; he was blocking her way. James dropped into an armchair, gathered his scattered faculties. He had to be canny, strategic. He managed a smile. He accepted a glass of Madeira.

“Miss Benson and I were discussing last night's concert,” Haskins remarked.

James tried to conjure the spirit of Robert; his brother always had a suave and witty comeback. Well, except with Flora Jennings, who was looking at him now as if he was some sort of odd insect. “You like sinning?” he answered.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“Singing,” James blurted. “I meant…of course…singing.”

Mrs. Runyon's lips trembled. James knew a suppressed smile when he saw one. His mother had just such an expression. Flora pretended to cough. He couldn't look at Kawena.

Haskins cleared his throat. “I'm fond of music,” he said. It wasn't clear whether he was embarrassed or also stifling a laugh.

Fifty years ago you could manufacture a slight out of the merest nothing and challenge a rival to pistols at dawn
, James thought. Sadly, those days were gone. Organized murder was not on the table. Instead, he was supposed make polite conversation. And nobody was giving him the least help. “Robert said the singer is all the crack. They call her”—what had his brother said—“the leading soprano of our age.”

“I'm sure the world's opinion matters more to him than her talent,” replied Flora tartly.

Something in James snapped. Perhaps he couldn't put a bullet through Haskins, but he could defend his brother. “Will you give over, Flora? What's Robert ever done to you? You never have a good word for him. And now you're sniping at him when he's not even here.”

“I was merely stating—”

“You've chased him right out of town with your continual criticism.”

Flora looked startled and self-conscious. “I have nothing to do with Lord Robert's movements. I'm sure he'll be more…at home in London.”

“He's not going to London.”

She looked away. “Of course. How silly of me.
Quite
the wrong season for London. No doubt Lord Robert has many fashionable invitations.”

“No doubt,” replied James. He wasn't going to tell her where Robert meant to go. She claimed not to care; let her wonder. It was a small satisfaction to see her frown. Mrs. Runyon's complacent expression was more mysterious.

“I should be going,” said Haskins. He stood.

James wanted to leap up and cheer. Thank God Haskins was the sort of fellow who would stay his proscribed half hour and no more. James stayed put through the polite farewells and the resettling of the group.

“I ran into Crane in the street,” he said to Kawena then. “He said he meant to call on you.”

She nodded. “He was here this morning.”

James waited, but she said no more. Once he'd known all her plans. Now, her mind was a mystery. And he had no right to make demands. This was unendurable—to be constrained to mouthing polite nothings when they had spent whole days talking freely together—and more. He couldn't say anything he wanted to say and had to think up a load of things he didn't want to say to fill an awkward silence. It was everything he hated about society in a nutshell.

James leaned forward, meeting Kawena's eyes. He had to find out something. Have some real communication with her. “Have you definitely changed your plans then?” he began. “You will stay in England?”

Kawena gazed at him. Her dark eyes were unfathomable, but James thought he glimpsed sadness there, along with a touch of impatience. “Have I?” she said.

“Crane said you'd bought a place.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Did he? I had understood that my dealings with him were confidential.”

That stung. “I helped you find Crane and organize your affairs.” He yearned to be closer to her, to sweep her into his arms. This net of words they'd become tangled in was maddening.

“It's a very reputable firm,” said Mrs. Runyon. “I think your recommendation was a good one.”

James had nearly forgotten the others were there. He turned now to find the older woman eyeing him with benign expectation. Flora looked thunderous.

“I suppose your family uses them,” the chaperone added.

“Yes.”

Mrs. Runyon nodded. “It was kind of you to pass along the name.”

James became aware of the weight of three pairs of feminine eyes. Flora's brilliant blue gaze was like a spear designed to pierce pretension. Mrs. Runyon's had a pleasant beam backed by steely assurance. He thought Kawena looked both irritated and sad; he would have done almost anything to know why.

The chaperone rose. “I fear we have an appointment in half an hour. But it was very good of you to call, Lord James.”

There was nothing to say to that. James had no choice but to rise and take his leave, no matter how much he might wish to argue.

When the door had closed behind him, Mrs. Runyon said, “That young man is coming along. But he's not quite ‘done' yet.”

The two younger women stared, but she merely smiled in response.

* * *

“Must we really go to this talk tonight?” Flora said to Kawena some hours later. Flora stood before the mirror in her bedchamber, examining the effect of a new gown they had picked up at the dressmaker.

“Ariel sent a note asking us to come,” Kawena reminded her. “Perhaps the speaker is another friend of Lord Alan's.” She watched Flora turn, making the ruffle at the hem of her dress bell out. “Mrs. Runyon was right. That shade of green becomes you.”

Flora eyed her reflection with no sign of satisfaction. She'd been touchy ever since they'd learned that Lord Robert was going away. Any attempt to discuss that fact was dismissed out of hand, however. “She mentioned that the lecture is about ancient history,” Kawena said, as if such a thing could be a treat. “Perhaps you'll be interested.”

“I'm sick to death of history!” Flora interrupted. “And of pretending I can find a place in society, and of…just…everything.”

Kawena sympathized. She felt rather the same. And she was aware that Flora's case was stickier than her own.
She
had an escape plan. Though there was still one large—male—obstacle to its successful completion. “If there is anything I can do,” she began.

“You should get ready if we're going out,” said Flora, turning away. Her tone was unmistakable. She would not discuss it.

They arrived at the lecture hall just as the event was beginning. Mrs. Runyon had delayed them for no discernible reason, which wasn't like her. Many of the rows of chairs were filled when they came in. Kawena spotted the ginger-haired woman who had been put forward as a proper bride for Lord James. She was pleased to see that the Gresham party was nowhere near her, and surprised to find the duke and duchess seated between Ariel and her husband and Lord James. For some reason, she hadn't expected them to be present. There was no sign of Lord Robert.

They found seats at the back as the speaker rose and went to the lectern. He carried a discouragingly thick sheaf of papers with him, and when he started in, Kawena resigned herself to another long stretch of boredom. She'd never heard of the people he named. She gathered that they had lived long ago, as expected from the topic of ancient history, somewhere across the Atlantic sea. Far away from her home, as well as from England.

As he droned on, her thoughts drifted. She gazed at the back of Lord James's head. He had said, “If you want a proper English husband, take me.” Did he wish to marry her so she could be proper? Accepted? Did he still think he owed this…obligation to her? When she considered the way he looked at her, she didn't think so. But whenever he spoke, it seemed to be all about propriety.

She gazed at his auburn hair, the enticing span of his shoulders. It seemed so very long ago that she had clung to that strong, supple body and lost herself in a daze of pleasure. She wanted to push through these finicky rows of uncomfortable little chairs and drag him from the room so she could do it again. And again.

She'd made a mistake, she decided. She should have chosen another method to show him she was as good as any English miss. This stupid propriety just got in the way. And it was nearly as dull as the speech this fat, pompous man was giving.

Lord James started to turn. Kawena glanced away, not wanting him to catch her staring. Then she quickly looked back. Why shouldn't he see the desire that burned in her eyes? But he had already turned back again.

“The scenes of these rites were great stone temples, in shape somewhat resembling the pyramids of Egypt,” the speaker said.

The image caught Kawena's attention. She'd seen pictures of these monuments. They were impressive.

“The person to be sacrificed was stretched out on a stone slab by pagan priests,” he continued, “and his body was sliced open with a sacred flint knife.” The speaker demonstrated on his own body, running a finger from the bottom of his waistcoat up to his breastbone. “The priest then reached in, grasped the victim's heart, and tore it out, to hold it up, still beating, before the assembled worshippers.”

A chorus of gasps and exclamations from the audience seemed to gratify him. Indeed, Kawena got the impression that he had hoped to shock and revolt them. Certainly it was a grisly picture. To exhibit a beating heart; the idea was horrifying. But watching the speaker scan the rows of chairs, apparently reveling in people's discomfort, was distasteful, too.

“The organ was then placed in a bowl held by a statue of the honored god,” he went on when the noise had died down a bit. “The sacrificed person's mutilated body was tossed down the temple stairs to land sprawled on a terrace at the base.”

Did the man realize he was smiling? Kawena wondered. It was a thin, rather…cruel smile. She decided to take care
not
to meet him after the lecture.

There was more history after that, but the audience remained unsettled. Whispers and shudders passed through the room. Many appeared poised, even eager, for further shocks. Others shifted uneasily in their chairs. The rest of the talk was tamer, however, back to dull recitations of battles and conquest, almost enough to lull one into daydreams again.

At last, he finished, to a smattering of polite applause. The crowd began to disperse into conversational clumps. Kawena, moving along the row of chairs toward the open space at the back of the hall, heard words like “barbarians,” “primitive,” and “disgusting” being exchanged. Tones varied from outrage to furtive enjoyment.

She emerged into a press of chattering people, craning a bit to see where the Gresham party had gone. Flora and Mrs. Runyon were swept away in the currents of the crowd. She moved forward until she was accosted by a pair of older women she'd met with Ariel. She couldn't remember their names.

“Miss Benson,” said the taller one, “what did you think of
that
?”

Kawena remembered a bit of advice Mrs. Runyon had given her, on the subject of opinions. “It was unusual,” she replied.

The other woman leaned closer, as if to confide some secret. “Do your people have such…rites?” She licked her lips on the last word.

“What?” Kawena couldn't believe her ears. “Of course not! Why would you even…?”

The first woman made an airy gesture. “You do come from a more…primitive background.”

There was that word again.

“You must have seen…things,” added the second woman. Her pale eyes gleamed, greedy for titillation.

She was standing far too close, and wearing far too much scent. Kawena took a step away. “Excuse me. I believe Mrs. Runyon wants me.” She invoked the name of her chaperone like a shield. But she was hailed again before she reached her.

“Miss Benson,” said a man.

In the next moment, she was surrounded by a circle of young gentlemen. She recognized some of them. They'd been among her admirers on an earlier occasion.

“Quite an eye-opening look into the past, eh?” he said.

She nodded. “Pardon me, but I must—”

“Not so surprising to you perhaps?”

“I don't know why you would say so,” she replied in her best Mrs. Runyon voice.

“We were just hearing…er, wondering,” said another of the group, “what sorts of…costumes do you wear when you're at home?”