For Love of the Duke (The Heart of a Duke Book 2) (5 page)

Instead, he continued. “Lydia loved you. She would want you to be happy.”

Jasper looked at a point over Guilford’s shoulder, flexing his jaw. “You dare presume to know what Lydia would want?” Not a soul had known another so well as Jasper had known his wife. From her smile to her gentle spirit, he knew her better than he knew the lines that covered his palm.

Guilford shifted forward in his seat; the aged leather cracked in protest. “Then you tell me, Bainbridge, you who knew her better than any other. Would Lydia be so cold and cruel as to want to see you live your life as this hard, unforgiving, empty man you’ve become?”

“Go to hell,” Jasper snapped.

His friend inclined his head. “I believe your response shall suffice as an answer.” Guilford climbed to his feet, and fished around the front of his pocket. He extracted a small book, no larger than the span of his palm and dropped it onto Jasper’s desk. “Consider it a bit of an early Christmastide present,” he murmured.

Jasper dropped his gaze.

Byron’s
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.

“It is the story of a world-weary man looking for meaning in his life,” Guilford went on.

“I don’t—”

“Read poetry. I know. But you used to, and I thought perhaps as it is Christmastide, and a time of hope and new beginnings, that you might find a renewed love for the written word.” Guilford opened his mouth as if he wished to say more. Instead, he sketched a short bow. “Good day, Bainbridge. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“You needn’t come by,” Jasper barked when his friend grasped the handle of the door.

“I know. But that is what friends do.” He paused. “Oh, and Bainbridge?” He reached into the front pocket of his jacket once more and fished something out. He tossed the item across the room. It landed with a solid thump atop Jasper’s desk, coming a hairsbreadth away from his ledgers. “I managed to retrieve Lady Katherine’s reticule. I thought you might return the item to your lady.”

“She’s not—”

Guilford took his leave. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“My lady,” Jasper finished into the silence. He momentarily eyed the small pale green reticule, reached for it, and then caught himself. With a curse, he shoved it aside and instead picked up Byron’s recent work. He turned it over in his hands. At one time, Jasper had read and appreciated all the works of the romantic poets. When he’d courted Lydia, he’d read to her sonnets that bespoke of love and beauty. Her death had shown him that sonnets were nothing more than fanciful words, not even worth the ink they were written in.

Yet, Guilford somehow believed the remnants of the man Jasper had been still dwelled somewhere inside him. When all the servants had fled in fear of the Mad Duke after Lydia’s death, Guilford had been unwavering in his steadfastness; the one constant in Jasper’s life, when all friends had gone.

And how did Jasper repay that devotion? With curt words and icy dismissals.

Jasper tossed the book down and stood so quickly his chair scraped along the hard wood floor. He proceeded to pace. Guilford dared to drag him away from Castle Blackwood and thrust him back into the joy and merriment enjoyed by mindless members of Society. His gaze skittered off to Lady Katherine’s reticule, and he cursed.

Why couldn’t Guilford have just left Jasper to wallow in the misery of his own making in the country? There, Jasper was not made to think of anything beyond the loss of Lydia. His staff, a deferential lot, knew to judiciously avoid Jasper’s path. Yet, in the span of a day, he’d been forced to take part in the Christmastide festivities upon the Thames River, and he’d not enjoyed any hint of a reminder of the time of year when Lydia had died amidst a pool of her own blood.

He punished himself by dragging the memory of her into focus, except…

He blinked.

And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the king decreed it to spare my life.

And yet, the fiery, vixen whom he’d pulled from the river flashed to his mind.

Jasper raked a hand through his hair. In that moment, he loathed Guilford for dragging him off to that infernal fair, and he loathed himself for allowing Guilford to drag him off, because then he would remain blissfully ignorant of the snapping Lady Katherine, who’d infiltrated his thoughts and robbed him of Lydia’s image just then.

His jaw set in a hard angle. If his friend believed Jasper had returned to London to rejoin the living and take part in any of the winter festivities, he was to be disappointed. Outside of his own solitary presence, Jasper had little intention of intermingling with any members of Society.

He picked up the book of poetry at the edge of his desk, and fanned the pages. His friend thought to give him poetry of the romantics. Either Guilford was a lack-wit, or foolishly unaware that the last book Jasper would ever pick up was the drivel of romantic poets spit upon the written page. There had been a time when he had enjoyed the words of Blake and Byron immensely. Not any longer. Not since life had taught him the perils of love.

He tossed the gift aside. Since that night, he still allowed himself to read, but his interests had changed a good deal. A hard smile formed on his lips. And certainly the last thing he’d care to read were books of romance and love.

Jasper strode over to the table filled with crystal decanters. He pulled the stoppered out and splashed several fingerfuls into a glass. If he was to remain in London, he had little intention of resuming his previous way of living.

The sooner Guilford realized that, the better off they all would be.

~5~

“Oh, my goodness, Katherine, will you not speak of it?”

Katherine sat at the window seat that overlooked the back gardens. Her sister knelt at her side, her eyes fairly pleading for details Katherine did not want to give.

She hugged her arms around her waist as the remembered terror of that day came flooding back. “There is nothing to speak of, Anne.”

Her sister sat back in a flounce of skirts. “Hmph,” she muttered. “You nearly drowned.”

“Because I was at that silly fair.”

“For which I’m ever so sorry,” Anne continued. “If you’d only stayed with me while I shopped…”

Katherine glared her into silence.

Her normally loquacious sister had sense enough to let that thought go unfinished.

Katherine returned her attention to the grounds below, and thought of the moment when her water-logged skirts had tugged her downward. And then he’d appeared. A kind of angel rescuer—more of a dark angel, but an angel nonetheless. The Duke of Bainbridge may be an unsmiling, boorish lout, but he had saved her, and for that he would forever have her gratitude.

A smile played about her lips. Whether he wanted it or not. She suspected the last thing the dark, cold duke would ever care for was warm expressions of gratefulness.

“Will you at least speak of the duke?” Anne pressed.

“No,” Katherine said automatically. She studied the snowflakes as they swirled past the windowpane. She’d not speak of him. She’d resolved to remember him for his rescue but beyond that, to bury thoughts of his harsh coldness.

“Mother said—”

“Anne,” she warned.

“Mother said a scandal surrounds him.” She leaned closed, and braced her hands upon the edge of the window seat. “She says they called him the Mad Duke for several years, and then Society ceased talking of him. Said he disappeared to the ruins of his castle.”

Katherine fisted the fabric of her skirts. She told herself she’d not feed her sister’s salacious appetite for gossip. She told herself to not ask. The Duke of Bainbridge’s business was his own. And yet…

“What happened to him?” The words tumbled from her lips.

From the clear pane of glass she detected her sister’s slight shrug. “Some say he murdered his wife.”

Katherine gasped. “Anne,” she chided. “Do not speak so.” She thought of the veneer of icy hardness that clung to him, the apathy in his pale green eyes. Such a man was surely capable of violence, and yet, that same man had risked his own life to save hers. Those were not the actions of a gentleman capable of murder.

Anne rose amidst a flutter of pale, pink skirts. She, however, appeared to have identified Katherine as a captivated audience. “That is all that is known,” she said, sounding like a child who’d just been told they are not to receive any plum pudding for Christmas dessert. She settled her hands upon her hips. “How can a man have been said to have murdered his wife, and no one knows any details of the night?”

“That is enough, Anne.” She’d not condone such gossip.

“Hmph, very well, then. You are a bore today, Katherine, and I merely sought to provide you company.”

“You can join me on my outing to the book shop.”

An inelegant snort escaped her sister. “Don’t be foolish.” She glanced out the window. “You’d brave snow to go—.”

“I’d hardly call it snow. It is merely a few flakes.”

“To find some dull books about …?”

“They aren’t dull.”

“Poetry.” Anne continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “You should at least read the words of love and—”

“Enough, Anne,” Katherine said on a sigh.

She gave a flounce of her golden ringlets. “Well, I for one would far rather see to my pianoforte.”

For all of Katherine’s lack of ladylike abilities, Anne seemed to excel in every endeavor, particularly her ability to play and sing. And Mother was quite indiscriminate in the frequency in which she pointed out the differences to Katherine.

Katherine flung her legs over the side of the window seat and her brown muslin skirts settled noisily about her ankles. “Poetry is the fruit of the soul.”

Her sister snorted. “Not the poems you read.”

Katherine closed her lips tight. No, her interests didn’t lie with the romantics. As a child, studying with their governesses, upon Father’s betrayal, and Aldora’s frantic search for a wealthy, titled husband, all foolish dreams had been quashed.

“Are you certain you’d not care to join m—?”

“Quite certain,” Anne said with a decisive nod. She paused, and the usual cheerful, carefree glimmer in her sister’s sky-blue eyes turned uncharacteristically serious. She took Katherine’s hands. “That day, I…” she shook her head, dislodging a single golden curl across her I. “I saw the crowd of onlookers and I knew. I…”

Katherine gave her hands a squeeze.

“I really am just so glad you were uninjured. I would be…”

Katherine nodded. “I know, Anne,” she said quietly. “I should be lost without you as well.”

Her sister kissed her cheek, and hurried from the room.

Katherine stared after her. They always had possessed an eerie ability to know just what the other was thinking, an ability to finish one another’s sentences, even. It had grated on Mother’s nerves to no end. She grinned in remembrance of the good fun they’d had as children tormenting their poor mother.

Her smile slipped as she considered the great disappointment she’d been to Mother since she’d made her Come Out last Season. Where Anne had a bevy of suitors, who’d come in all ranks and titles, Katherine had nary a one. Mother had held out hope that Anne could make an advantageous match with an available duke or marquess, whereas Katherine, well, she’d held out hope that Katherine would make a match with any one.

With her drab brown curls and brown eyes, she held no illusions of her appearance. She would never be the kind of beauty who would inspire any grand passion in any gentleman.

You’d be wise not to make designs upon my title, madam. I’d not wed you if you were the last creature in the kingdom.

Katherine shook her head. As though she’d ever deign to wed such a foul, odious creature. She remembered back to her sister’s words about the Mad Duke and hated the blasted tug at her heart. It was hard to imagine the cold, unfeeling duke to have ever been capable of any emotion beyond icy derision, and yet, the Duke of Bainbridge must have truly loved his wife to have removed himself from Society.

She hated this desire to know more about him, and of the pain he carried. He was nothing to her. She would carry on and never see the Duke of…

Katherine swallowed, as for the first time in the two days since she’d fallen into the Thames River, she thought of her forgotten reticule.

The pendant!

Not that she believed in the foolishness of such a talisman, per se, but the bauble had been worn by her sister, and her sisters’ friends and they had believed it had brought them love…and Katherine had gone and lost it at the Frost Fair.

She shook her head. Anne didn’t know of Katherine’s find from the old peddler, and she could never find out.

The door opened, and she bit the inside of her cheek as her mother sailed through the entrance. “Anne said you are intending to go to the bookshop.” Her tone suggested that Katherine’s intended trip was as forbidden as a trip to visit the prisoners at Newgate.

She nodded. “I was just—”

“You are to take a footman.”

“Of course,” Katherine murmured.

Mother frowned. “I’d hardly say ‘of course’ is the appropriate response considering your scandalous outing at the Frost Fair.”

Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out that it had been her sister’s madcap scheme. Ultimately, Katherine had gone along with those plans…and Katherine wouldn’t betray her sister’s confidence—even to spare herself from Mother’s haranguing.

“Is there anything else you’d like to speak with me about before I attend my shopping?”

Mother’s frown darkened at Katherine’s insolent attempt to end the conversation.

“I wanted to speak to you about Mr. Ekstrom.”

A pit formed in Katherine’s stomach. “There’s really nothing to speak of, Mother,” she murmured, hoping her words would be enough to end the conversation, knowing she was never that fortunate where her mother’s tirades were concerned.

“I’ve grand hopes of the match Anne can make,” Mother began, her meaning clear. Katherine had little hope of a truly advantageous union. Unlike Anne. “I do not know why you are being so difficult. If you wed him, then we’ll not have to worry about Mr. Ekstrom hovering in the wings.”