Lord Ruin (16 page)

Predawn gloom cast the planes of Ruan’s face in a chiaroscuro of tension-marred beauty. Still as granite, he stood at the open window like some Greek-carved Apollo. Behind him, the room remained shadowed in night. His perfectly made bed did not beckon as it should have to a man who’d not yet been to sleep. He meant to put a bullet into Wilberfoss come dawn. A fatal shot. Hell, he’d done as much before and on less provocation, too.

No one would blame him if he killed the man, not with so much more than honor at stake. Yet, he felt shooting Wilberfoss would be a betrayal of Anne. Nonsense, of course. After all, he was, in effect, doing it for her. But she hadn’t meant killing when she’d asked him to intervene. Killing she would not approve, and he found it mattered. Damn it to hell and back.

Dobkin moved into the approaching light, brushing a last speck of lint from the heavy black coat in his hands.

Knowing better than to disturb the duke’s silent reflection at such a time, he said nothing and walked softly. Ruan slipped into the garment and resumed his window-side vigil. When the fog and the sky became one indistinguishable gray, he stalked out of his room and into his wife’s.

As he had at the window, he stood silently at Anne’s bedside. At this hour, half past four, he had just enough light to see her sleeping, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the faint gleam from the wedding band on her fourth finger. He came often to watch her sleep, as if by staring at her he might divine the sort of woman who so slowly ensorcelled him.

Not so long ago, he’d possessed perfect control of his life. Once, he had no feelings but those he trusted. Now, his emotions were a shifting tide, constantly in flux. His friendship with Devon and, to a lesser extent, with Benjamin, which he had considered solid as rock seemed more like sand, uncertain and uneasy. Lust for beautiful women, for Katie in particular, had once been a source of comfort to him. Predictable, ever-present. Not even two months he’d been married, and he still wanted only one woman: Anne.

How or why escaped him, leaving him only the bare truth of his predicament. Women lusted after him. Even when he didn’t try, women wanted him, they flirted subtly or outrageously. Anne didn’t at all. In fact, he doubted she even knew how to flirt. Anne had changed everything he ever knew or believed about himself. He was a man familiar with lust, and honesty forced him to admit that what he felt for his wife was considerably more than that. The very underpinnings of his existence were gone.

As he looked at his sleeping wife, he knew Ben was right. He ought to have known his mistake that night at Corth Abbey. Well, he was not so sure he hadn’t. He’d never asked her name. He recalled the enticing picture of her in his bed, her lovely purity and the soaring delight of taking what she had never offered before. Once he knew he was first, he hadn’t stopped. And now she would have a child by him. By rights, she ought to hate him just as Ben predicted. He didn’t think she did, not exactly, anyway. But she didn’t revel in being a duchess or care much for the trappings of her exalted position as the wife of Lord Ruin. He didn’t know what she felt for him, except it probably wasn’t the hatred Ben had predicted. Nor was it love. As for lust, that, too, seemed gravely in doubt. His own state was not.

He had no innocent motives about her. He wanted her. Pure and simple, he wanted her in the basest, most carnal way a man could want a woman. The women he bedded knew quite a lot about men. Anne knew very little. He had always preferred experience to green exuberance. Yet now he suddenly preferred Anne’s innocence, which he would have thought about as likely as a leopard changing its spots for stripes. Christ, he wanted her. Warm and giving and luxuriously sensual. Once, he’d been a man without vulnerability. Another weakness he could lay at Anne’s feet.

The urge to wake her with a slow and tender kiss nearly overwhelmed him. A last goodbye, if need be. Realistically, the likes of Wilberfoss posed no threat, but anyone could have bad luck. Perhaps Wilberfoss would return the victor. With a muttered imprecation, he turned on his heel intending to leave as silently as he’d come.

He knew immediately when she woke, though she didn’t move or make any sound. Her breathing altered, and his awareness of her deepened. He stopped and faced the bed once again.

“Cynssyr?”

“Yes.”

She sat. The covers pooled around her waist. For a moment, quiet predominated. He heard the clock on the mantel ticking away the seconds.

“Don’t go,” she said. In the dark, her voice sounded small, pleading even.

“I must, Anne.”

“Why? For your honor? Honor won’t open the gates of heaven for either of you.”

“Anne.” He stared at her for a moment. “If I’m killed, will you shed tears for me?”

She drew a breath. “That is unfair.”

“So?”

“He’ll be drunk.”

“Likely so.”

“Where’s the honor in that?” She pushed at the sheets. “You need not kill him.”

“For once, what I must do and what I want to do are in perfect accord.”

“You are not so cold as that.”

It was a reproach. To which he replied, “Oh, but I am.” And this time he did leave. Before his doubt exceeded his conviction.

The affair did not go exactly as expected. Not on his account. The moment he saw the viscount’s carriage arrive at Wimbledon Common a glacial calm descended. Nothing pierced the layer of ice that surrounded him. A familiar insulation from emotion. He welcomed the cold.

Devon, who had insisted on being his second, nudged him when Wilberfoss threw open the door and fell to the ground. The marquess of Thrale stepped out after him. Thrale looked at Ruan and shrugged as if to say, “What can I do?”

“The fool,” Dev whispered, staring at Wilberfoss clumsily brushing off the mud that clung to his coat. “Well, try not to kill him by accident.”

“It won’t be an accident.”

Devon fell momentarily silent. “Seems somehow unfair, with him in that condition.”

Ruan left off watching Thrale and Wilberfoss. He strode to Devon. “He mauled her as if she were some chambermaid who’d caught his fancy.”

“Like you did?” Devon shot back so quickly there could be no doubt his anger came from the heart.

“To the devil, Bracebridge,” he said, turning. “To the devil.”

“Ruan.” Devon stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. “My apologies. That was uncalled for.”

“When did you ever not speak your mind?”

“I shouldn’t have. Not today.”

“Gentlemen?” The marquess of Thrale called them to attention.

Ruan looked at his best friend and saw nothing was settled between them. “Well, then.”

The first shot was Ruan’s. He listened to Thrale counting the paces and turned on ten, ready. Anne’s reproach of him was like a tangible thing. He lifted his arm. Wilberfoss did too, weaving on his feet. “Damnation,” Ruan said, and aimed to the right.

Wilberfoss fired on the run and into the dirt at Ruan’s feet. Unfortunately, the viscount’s escape path placed him to Ruan’s right. Hit by a shot that ought to have missed by a good six inches, he yelped and fell to his back screeching. With a shout, the physician raced toward his patient. Ruan strolled to where Wilberfoss writhed on the ground and bent over him.

With a soldier’s eye, he assessed the wound. Not a fatal shot. A painfully deep crease across the forearm, but no more. Ignoring Thrale, he waited until he had the viscount’s attention then said slowly and clearly, “If ever again you lay a hand on my wife, you won’t be able to run fast enough. I will kill you.”

“Well, damn me,” Thrale said, disgusted. “I was given to understand the circumstances of offense were quite different.”

“Oh,” Ruan added. “Should you so much as speak to Miss Emily Sinclair, your regrets will be the last ever you have.” Wilberfoss’s eyes rolled in his head. “Have I made myself clear?” He waited for a nod. “Good.”

“My lord,” said the physician to the rnarquess, looking up from his groaning patient. “If you would help me get him into the carriage?”

Thrale signaled to a footman. “See to him. Look here, Cynssyr, I had no idea he’d insulted the duchess.”

“He did more than insult her.” He’d done what Anne wanted, and now he was sorry he’d not killed the man.

The marquess nursed a sore hand, himself. When Ruan gave an inquiring look, he said, “Nicked it in the carriage, trying to stop Wilberfoss from jumping out before we even got here.” He winced as he slowly made and released a fist. “An old injury. Reopened it. You’re a lucky man, Cynssyr.”

“Because of Wilberfoss?” he said, incredulous. “Make no mistake, if he’d not been drunk, I’d have put a period to his existence.”

Thrale almost smiled. “I meant because of your wife. Anne—the duchess, I mean, is an extraordinary woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“I admire her a great deal.”

Unflinchingly, Ruan met that iron-gray stare. Jealousy was not an emotion he liked at all and here he was, jealous again. He knew Anne liked Thrale. He’d seen them talking as though they were friends of longstanding. He was jealous of their nascent friendship. “I’ve no compunctions about killing you, too, if need be.”

“I think,” Thrale said with that same hint of amusement, “that you would find me a more challenging opponent than my Lord Wilberfoss.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. But I would still kill you.” With a slight bow, he turned his back on Thrale. “Dev, old man, are you ready?”

Dev retrieved his coat from the groom who held it and settled the heavy garment on his shoulders. “Ready.”

In the carriage, silence predominated. At first, it was the sort of easy silence as falls between close friends. But when they reached the outskirts of London the atmosphere had changed from comfortable to decidedly awkward. Devon leaned forward and said, “A favor, Ruan.”

“Anything. You know that.”

“I saw how you were with Anne. At the ball, I mean and a few times since.”

“Look here, I admit I spoke too sharply to her, but Durling was getting ideas.”

“That is hardly her fault.”

“She is too innocent to understand what he’s after.”

“Well, at any rate, I didn’t mean that. I meant when you were dancing. I saw how you looked at her. How she looked at you.”

“We danced. That’s all.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I am quite certain we danced.”

Devon’s mouth thinned. “Have you any feelings for her at all?”

“She’s my wife.”

“Restrain yourself,” Devon said. “Just this once.”

“Meaning?”

“She is already too desperately impressed with you.”

“So far as I can see, Anne is impressed with very little where I am concerned.”

“You can’t be as blind as that. For the love of God, do not let it go further.”

Ruan replied without thinking. “Further than what?”

“You made me an oath.”

“Which I have kept.”

“Too well, Ruan. Too well.”

“Damned either way.”

“You will break her heart. As you have every woman before her. I won’t have her hurt. Not like that. She does not deserve it.”

Devon’s rejoinder caught him unprepared for his almost giddy reaction to thinking of Anne in love with him. If she loved him, he would be safe. “It is not,” he said at last, “as if I can throw her over for another.” Nor, he thought, as if he wanted to. Or that he believed for a moment Anne was in any danger of falling in love with him. But if Devon were right, what then? He rested against the seat. What if she learned to love him?

Dev pinched the bridge of his nose as though he took strength from the gesture. “There is a good deal of talk.”

“There’s always talk.” Crossing his legs, he imagined Anne gazing at him with soft, devoted eyes, hopelessly in thrall. “I pay it no heed. Nor should you.”

“About you and Katie. She ought not to have been at Cywrthorn.”

He shook his head at that. “I know.”

“Camilla Fairchild is telling everyone you kissed her.”

“Weeks ago, Dev. Weeks ago.” His recollection of the moment felt empty. Had he really been so callous and shallow that he bothered with the likes of Camilla Fairchild? Well. He had kissed her. And longer than he should have. He remembered enjoying her eager, unstudied kiss enough that he’d given brief consideration to something more. Then, she giggled and effectively quenched his desire. He laughed. He had Anne to thank for freeing him from Camilla Fairchild and her ilk. “What a silly chit.”

“People are saying you and I have quarreled.”

“Hm.”

“Over Anne.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“So long as it’s not so, I won’t concern myself.”

The carriage stopped at Devon’s Cavendish Square home. “Perhaps it’s time you did concern yourself.”

“Anne,” Ruan said, “would never play me false.” She simply wouldn’t. “Nor do I believe you would either.”

“She would not.”

“What about you, Dev?” He wondered how much Devon knew about him and Anne. Had he guessed Anne’s condition? Had she told him? To his mind, her pregnancy made her all the more his. Or was Devon still so in love with her, he didn’t care one way or the other? The groom opened the door and pulled down the step. Once Dev stood on the ground outside, Ruan could read nothing in the black depths of his friend’s eyes. “Can I trust you?”

“Anne isn’t like other women,” Devon said.

“I know.”

“You don’t understand the first thing about a woman like her.”

“The hell you say.”

“You aren’t capable of the tender emotion she deserves, Cyn. You can’t give her what she needs. I can. We both know that. It’s I who should be her husband. Not you.”

“Can I trust you?” Ruan repeated.

“You can trust her, and that’s all that matters.” Devon turned without another word, and Ruan let him go. It was the first time they’d parted on less than amicable terms.

Anne was waiting in the foyer when he returned to Cywrthorn. Merchant was nowhere in sight. Nor any other servant. He went to her and folded her into his arms.

“Cynssyr,” she said.

He touched her face and felt his heart melting. “You’re crying.”