For Love of the Duke (The Heart of a Duke Book 2) (7 page)

Fury moved with a life-force through her veins. Oh, the insolence of the man. How could the gossips possibly be correct about his late wife? This coarse, hateful creature was not, nor could have ever been capable of love. “I do not care if I had one Season or ten Seasons, I would not forsake my own self-worth for a gentleman who speaks ill of me, condescends me upon every turn, who…” She furrowed her brow. “How do you know I failed to make a match after a single Season?”

He blinked, and it occurred to her that the normally unflappable duke appeared startled by her question. Hmm, well this was very interesting, indeed. Not even her near drowning, his subsequent tenuous rescue, and the unchaperoned carriage ride had seemed to rattle him. And yet, this one question, should silence him.

The duke smoothed his palms along the front of his coat sleeves. “It was merely a supposition on my part.”

Katherine angled her head. “Yes, but you didn’t say two or three or four Seasons. You said one.” She smiled. “Never tell me you’ve been doing research on me, Your Grace?”

“Do not be preposterous,” he snapped. “I do not conduct research on people.” He raked a gaze over her person. “Particularly unwed young females.”

He intended the words as an insult, that much was clear in his tone, and yet, his gaze lingered longer than was proper upon her plump breasts.

Katherine had always despaired over the unseemly mounds of flesh; her mother had even forced her to wear bindings, until one night Katherine had fainted from the tightness of the cloth wrapped about her person. Something in the duke’s eyes; a hot, penetrating stare, however, made her feel, for the first time, the tiniest bit of female power. Which was outright laughable. The Duke of Bainbridge had been abundantly clear that he no more desired her than she desired him.

And yet, she reveled in his focus. It made her feel the same heady power that Eve had surely felt after tempting Adam with that sinful piece of fruit in the Garden of Eden.

“Do you require any assistance, my lady?”

Katherine jumped at the unexpected appearance of the shopkeeper. He alternated his gaze between Katherine and the duke; a slight frown of disapproval on his small lips.

She smiled. “No, I am finding everything rather easily. Why, I found the sole, remaining copy of
The Excursion
.”

The duke’s mouth flattened.

Katherine winked up at him as the shopkeeper returned to the front of the shop.

She made to step around the duke, but then, something gave her pause. It was the slightest something, reflected in the greens of his eyes, now deepened to the shade of emeralds, a glitter of emotion he likely didn’t think himself capable of.

Pain.

The Mad Duke.

Her smile faded as she imagined him as an altogether different man; one who smiled, and teased, and who loved. And who was also so very lonely at the Christmastide season. Katherine glanced down at the book, and then cleared her throat. “Here.” She held the book out to him.

He stood stock still, studying her with an inscrutable expression. Katherine pressed the volume into his hands. “I really wasn’t all that interested in reading it,” she lied. She’d been looking forward to reading Wordsworth’s latest poem for an inordinate deal of time. There would be others.

She detected the white-knuckled grip he had upon the leather spine. “I don’t need—”

“I’m sure you don’t need anything, Your Grace. But sometimes, it is nice to simply have things one wants.” Katherine dipped a curtsy, and continued on down the long row of shelving. All the while, she felt his gaze boring a hole into her back. She stole a sideways peek, and found him rooted to the same spot, studying her as if she were an oddity at the Egyptian Hall.

Katherine yanked her gaze back to the books in front of her. To give herself something to do, she tugged free the nearest book her fingers touched.

“I’d not accept pity from you,” a low voice said close to her ear.

Katherine jumped. The book tumbled to the floor and landed upon the tips of her slipper. A gasp escaped her, as she shifted the injured toes.

The duke cursed. “Are you injured?”

She grimaced, shifting to alleviate the throbbing ache in her toes. “I survived a plunge into the Thames, I imagine I should be handling an injured foot a good deal better.”

He grinned.

Katherine’s heart rhythm increased several quick beats. Goodness, when he smiled, it transformed him into a really, rather remarkable man. When she’d first made her Come Out, she’d visited the Royal Museum and observed the chiseled work of Michelangelo’s David. With his smile, the duke could rival that great statue for a place of beauty.

Perhaps madness was contagious.

He bent down and retrieved the forgotten book. He turned it over in his hands, studying the title, his familiar frown back in place. Only…his lips twitched at the corner.

Katherine glanced at the title, and heat flooded her cheeks. “Er…uh…I…”
The Works of Leigh Hunt?!
Egads, the poet who’d been sentenced to prison by the Prince Regent for libel. Well, Katherine would certainly have a good deal of explaining to do if polite Society believed she read such scandalous works.

She accepted the book from him, and promptly stuffed it back on the crowded bookshelf. “I don’t read Leigh Hunt’s work,” she said, detecting the defensive note in her words.

The duke inclined his head. “It would not matter if you did.”

“Oh, it certainly would,” she said. She could only imagine the furor if the
ton
believed the plain, bluestocking Adamson twin read the work of Leigh Hunt. “Not that I do. Because I don’t,” she said, hurriedly.  Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rattling on. “Very well, then. I must be going.”

Before the duke could utter another word, she spun on her heel and quickly exited the shop. A blanket of white covered the pavement, the snow that rained down from the sky, large, fluffy flakes. A sweet, uncharacteristic quiet filled the London air. Katherine searched around for her carriage.

From over her shoulder she detected the faint jingle of the bell from inside the bookshop, then the steady crunch of boots turning up the fresh snow.

Katherine’s back straightened, and she resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. She didn’t need to look. She knew he was there, watching, walking over to her...and still, his commanding presence didn’t fail to unnerve her.

Katherine gasped, as the duke stopped alongside her. She slapped a hand to her breast and spun to face him. “Must you always—”

“Here,” he said, gruffly.

She blinked at the wrapped package in his hands.

“Take it,” he ordered.

Katherine looked around, aware of the impropriety of accepting a gift from a gentleman, in a very public place, no less. Except, the streets remained eerily empty, devoid of people passing by. She took the wrapped package from him, and proceeded to open it.

The Excursion.

Her heart did a quick pause, and then resumed its steady tempo. “No, you mustn’t…”

She spun around in search of the duke, but his long legged stride had put considerable distance between them; his black cloak stirred about his powerful legs, in a stark contrast to the white snow.

Her gaze fell to the book he’d given her. He was a perfectly odious bounder, and yet, twice now he’d shocked her with his generosity; one in risking his life to save her, and two in allowing her the sole copy of
The Excursion
. He struck her as a self-centered, unfeeling nobleman, and yet, with unexpected gestures, continued to defy the image of boorish lout.

And Katherine hated that she did not know what to make of the gentleman. She preferred a world where black was black and white was white, and there were no colors in between. Her father’s betrayal taught her that gentlemen were ultimately selfish creatures who put their own comforts and desires before all else.

In her clear world, with his harsh treatment and callous words, he was a reprehensible fiend.

But in a suddenly
unclear
world, the same duke who’d purchased the expensive volume for himself, had now given it to her.

She dusted her gloved finger along the trace of snow that coated the leather cover. When she’d first learned of her family’s financial situation, she’d lain awake in the middle of the night, a crushing fear upon her chest. In those scariest of times, she’d found solace in Wordsworth’s poems. The sonnets had reminded her that for as tenuous as her circumstances were, and for all the fear she carried, there was always some far greater sadness.

Thinking of the Duke of Bainbridge, and all he’d lost, she rather believed he’d known that
greater sadness.
When she’d plucked the volume from the shelf, she’d hoped to aggravate the flinty-eyed duke. Now, staring down at it, considering what he’d done, and more importantly, what he’d known, Katherine knew very well it would be wrong for her to keep the book.

Just then, the footman rushed over to help relieve her of her package. She held a hand up. “Stephens, I need to return to the bookshop. I need to pen a note, and when I’ve finished, I’ll require you to deliver this package to someone.” Katherine handed it over to him, and turned back to the bookshop.

In that moment, Katherine realized the duke was not all he seemed.

And she didn’t know why that thought should terrify her as it did.

~7~

Jasper stomped his way through the snow, down the long stretch of pavement, onward toward his Mayfair Street townhouse, his hands empty from his visit at the bookshop.

He gritted his teeth so hard, pain shot from his jawline, and radiated up to his temple.

He’d recognized that look in her eyes; her eyes that put him of mind of warmed Belgian chocolate. The winter air swallowed the growl that climbed up his throat.

What in the name of St. Stanislaus was the matter with him?

He was the bloody Duke of Bainbridge. The Mad Duke, as Society referred to him. He did not wax poetic about the color of ladies’ eyes. He had, once upon a lifetime ago, when he’d courted Lydia. But not any longer. He drew on her name, and closed his eyes momentarily. He froze.

Wind whipped around him, harsh and punishing, and he embraced the sting of the winter storm.

Jasper clenched his eyes tight, willing her precious face back into focus. Her eyes. They’d been blue. But the exact shade, he could no longer envision with his imagining.

As if in mockery of his efforts, Lady Katherine’s brown eyes, filled with fire and passion, flitted through his mind.

Jasper shook his head and continued walking.

He could explain away his fascination with Lady Katherine. She, unlike the lords and ladies who’d had the misfortune of crossing his miserable path, appeared wholly uncowed by him. Rather, she seemed to find an unholy delight in tormenting him.

Since Lydia’s death, nay, since he’d killed her, people had been wise to avoid him, and what was more, fear him. People didn’t dare speak to him. And they certainly didn’t tease him.

But Lady Katherine did.

Yes, he could explain away his fascination with the young lady. He could not, however, explain what had possessed him to purchase that damned volume of Wordsworth’s and run after her like some callow youth.

Over the years, Jasper had embraced the stark coldness that filled him. For a man without a heart could never again know the mind-numbing pain of losing one’s wife and child.

Then Lady Katherine had fallen into the Thames River and upended his icy world.

Seeming incapable of guile she wore her every emotion upon her face like an artist’s palate of colored paints. The lady’s outrage, her fury, the amusement, hope, all of it, etched at upon the graceful lines of her heart-shaped face. She reminded him of the fresh innocence he’d possessed, of a simpler time, of the joy he’d known, before his world had fallen apart.

And it scared the bloody hell out of him.

At long last, Jasper arrived at his white stucco townhouse with the cold brick front that suited the bleakness of his life. He stomped up the steps.

As if on cue, the door opened, and Jasper sailed through the entrance. He shrugged out of his cloak, and tossed it to a waiting footman.

“Your Grace,” the butler greeted, with a deep bow.

Jasper gave a curt nod in greeting and continued onward down the long corridors, through the length of the house. He paused outside his office door a moment, and then entered.

Jasper kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. A panicky sensation gripped his chest. He counted to ten, and when it didn’t help, he counted again. Since Lydia’s death he’d found that focusing on those small, succinct numbers diverted his thoughts away from any unwelcome thoughts or emotions.

He crossed over to the rose-inlaid mahogany table and picked up a decanter of brandy. He poured the amber contents to the rim of a glass, and carried it over to the window. Jasper stared out into the intensifying storm, the flakes swirling outside the windowpane. He took a slow sip.

Coming to London had been the height of foolishness. He’d allowed Guilford to cajole him into paying a visit to his townhouse. As most members of the
ton
had left for their countryseats to celebrate the Christmastide season, Jasper would be spared the pointed glances and snide whispers as they gossiped about the Mad Duke. Ultimately, he’d been too much a coward to face the ugly remembrances that lived within the castle walls.

A knock sounded on his office door.

“Enter,” he called, his gaze fixed in the streets below.

The door opened.

Then the soft shuffle of steps. “Your Grace, a package arrived for you.”

Jasper stiffened.

A package?

“Your Grace?” the butler asked hesitantly.

“Leave it on my desk.”
And get the hell out
. The words screamed inside his head but he remained silent. He stared down into the contents of his brandy. He didn’t want any blasted company this day. He blinked as the rich hue put him in mind of a fiery pair of brown eyes. “Christ,” he hissed. Jasper downed his brandy in one long swallow, welcoming the trail it blazed down his throat.