Duke Ever After (Dukes' Club Book 5) (9 page)

So, he quickly added, “Then again, drowning one’s sorrows in liquor is the sign of a weak—“

“This way,” Blackburn cut in and charged off down the hall, leaving Aston little option but to follow. 

The drafty castle was different than his own ducal mausoleum done largely in the French style. This one suggested ancient clansmen readying for battle.

Large tapestries decorated the stone walls, doing little to alleviate the chill.

With each step down the moonlit corridor and subsequent circular stone stairs that the Duke of Blackburn was taking with utter ease, Derek began to understand what Rosamund meant when she had mentioned loneliness.

Oh, Derek had been alone for most of his life. . . But the castle had a sort of magnificent melancholy to it, as if it reflected its duke’s emotional state.

Was this why she’d been so desperate to escape for what most considered the most joyous days of the year?

Perhaps.

And that was something he could understand.

Loneliness was a cruel companion. Especially if one wasn’t actually alone like Lady Rosamund. Her own brother’s troubled company had, no doubt, simply made her feel more adrift which only impressed Derek with how incredible her strong sense of self was.

Most women would have withered away to apologetic shells. Rosamund, on the other hand, seemed a tropical flower, ready to burst from its tight bud into full resplendent bloom. The state of her brother and his castle had not diminished her. If anything, they had honed her and propelled her to a wish to find any other path than the one of solitude that her brother had taken.

A dismaying wave of admiration washed over him.

He liked Blackburn.

Rosamund?

He was
astonished
by her. By her good humor, her resilience, and her desire to lead a life not restricted by the definition of women.

Very few women chose such a dangerous and rough course. And he’d always liked an adventurous sailor, ready to steer into the storm.

It was impossible not to give belief to the thought that if other women who had held such promise, who had been heiresses themselves, had chosen some other aim than being a Jewel of the
ton’s
First Water, that they would not have been so entirely crushed.

Too many women were trapped in loveless marriages which demanded they diminish themselves so as not to outshine their usually boorish husbands. He couldn’t imagine Rosamund succumbing to such a terrible fate.

A slow, fading death.

“Aston, what in God’s name are you thinking?”

“Pardon?”

Blackburn scowled. “You have the strangest look upon your countenance.”

“Just thinking about the unfairness of this world on the gentler sex.”

“Gentler?” Blackburn snorted. “Have you met my sister?”

Derek stumbled on a loose stone. What was he to say? Had Rosamund mentioned him? “What does your sister have to do with it?”

“Gentle is not the word when one speaks of her. And to think of it, Lady Cavendish isn’t gentle either.”

Derek smiled. Imogen, Lady Cavendish, was another woman he admired. “No, Imogen is a rough diamond who speaks her mind quite easily.”

“As are all the ladies of my recent acquaintance. What has happened to the women, Aston?”

“Perhaps a few of them have realized they needn’t be limited to the bleating of sheep.”

Blackburn opened his mouth as if to argue then stopped. He suddenly turned left and wrenched open a massive oak door.

Finally Blackburn said, “Rosamund will never bleat. She’s a goat. If anything, she’d ram you with her horns. Singular, that one.”

Aston grinned at the apt, if not necessarily flattering, description. He gnawed on his lip for a moment then ventured, “A husband will cure her of her goatish ways.”

Blackburn snorted. “Not bloody likely, mon. She’s vowed to never marry. I don’t know for certain if she’ll keep to it. She’d make a bonnie mother, ya ken. But. . . Well, she’s a fortune of her own and no need to submit to the whims of a husband.”

There it was. Affirmation that Rosamund wouldn’t wed and from her own brother. “You don’t mind?”

“Mind? With Rosamund if one wishes for any sort of peace, one best not mind. Besides. . . Marriage is a dangerous proposition for a woman.”

It was an interesting sentiment for Blackburn to assert. He was tempted to push but just as he was about to ask, there was a scuffling of noise then a flame bloomed in the darkness.

Blackburn hung a lantern from a hook on the wall.

Shelves and shelves of bottles of liquor gathering various degrees of dust greeted them.

“Beautiful sight!” Derek declared as he knew he typically would.

Right now, he wasn’t certain he was truly ready to meet this conversation with any skill. He was all for the independence of women. After all, if his own mother had not been quite so obedient, she’d still be alive.

Granted, he never would have come to be. . . However. . . He couldn’t help but think of the gentle-eyed portrait of the woman who had brought him into the world. How he wished she could have had something more.

“There you are again, Aston. You’re damned quiet tonight.”

“If you must know, Blackburn, I’m thinking on how damned dangerous it is for a woman to be
gentle
.”

Blackburn stared at him for a long moment then turned his broad back and studied the shelves of drink. “My mother was a gentle woman.”

“You loved her?”

“What kind of a bloody question is that?” The Scot paused then pulled a bottle down. He held it carefully then brushed the dust from it. “Yes. I loved her deeply. I felt every moment of her suffering. And my father caused her to suffer greatly. So, yes. . . You’re correct. It’s dangerous for a woman to be gentle.”

“And you’re happy for Lady Rosamund to be. . . Well, without that particular quality?”

“She’s perfect the way she is, if you must know.” Blackburn’s dark eyes warmed with the love he obviously felt for her. “If she was different, she wouldn’t be able to take my moods. She’s a damned good sister. She keeps me in line. Well, as much as anyone can.”

“And Imogen?” Derek asked, unable to stop himself.

“Let’s not discuss it. Let’s drink instead.”

“A sound decision.”

“I do wish Rosamund hadn’t gone off though,” Blackburn suddenly said. “She deserves a respite from me, it’s true, but I doubt she knows how much I rely on her no nonsense view of my brooding. She won’t indulge my darker moods.”

“Brood?” Derek echoed, somewhat surprised. “You admit it?”

“Only when I am about to drink half the contents of my cellar.” Blackburn extended the bottle to Derek. “Open it.”

Derek took the bottle whilst Blackburn turned back to his shelves.

He twisted the cork out of the brandy bottle and waited. It was damned tempting to just start swigging away, but such an action might reveal that he was under duress. It was important to never show your hand to those about you, to always appear either slightly madder or more in control than anyone else.

As he waited for Blackburn to choose his own bottle, he cleared his throat then asked, “So, we won’t have the pleasure of seeing your sister?”

“No. She’s hied off to a friend’s for Christmas. She deserves a happier season than the cold ones I give her. The holiday is. . .” Blackburn grew silent, the clinking of bottles the only sound.

Derek waited for the other man to finish but it became clear that he wouldn’t be revealing whatever memory had been on the tip of his tongue.

“She’ll be back then at the New Year?”

Blackburn grabbed another bottle and twisted the cork free. “No. She’s been invited for a prolonged stay in London by a school friend.”

Blackburn lifted his bottle in salute. “Cheers.”

Derek gaped, his own bottle midair. “London?”

Taking a long swallow, Blackburn pulled up a small barrel then sat, stretching out his long legs. “Aye.”

“But surely, you should accompany her?”

“The Highlands are my home and I’ve much work here. I’m shocked you’re so nannyish. I told you she’s not like other young women.” Blackburn eyed him up and down. “Sit down man. You look as if you’ve been brained. Does brandy not suit you?”

Derek shook his head, desperate to clear his rioting thoughts. Rosamund? In London?

“Do you know what friend?” he asked carefully.

“Mmm.” Blackburn drank again. “Lady Gemma, sister to the Duke of—“

“Hunt,” Derek cut in.

“Aye, that’s correct.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that there was a great deal of scandal surrounding Lady Gemma’s mother and that such a woman would likely lead Rosamund down the path of sin rather than steer her clear of it. Surely, Blackburn knew. But then again, ensconced so entirely up here in the north, and hating Sassenachs as he so clearly did, perhaps Blackburn had no idea that his sister was clearly about to launch herself into society in a way that would make any proper brother shiver with horror.

“You seem very interested in my sister.” Blackburn arched a dark, suspicious brow. “You’ve not met?”

There it was again. . . What to say? He had no idea what Rosamund may or may not have said about their encounters. The last thing he wished was to get her into a difficult spot with her brother. That wasn’t his style. Though it might have been the smarter course.

If he could just tell Blackburn that Rosamund was not acting the proper young lady, the duke would hie off after his sister and bring her to heel.

But such a thing seemed so entirely disrespectful of the fiery woman he’d met that he couldn’t bring himself to betray her.

So, he smirked and replied, “I’m always fascinated by the ladies, Blackburn.”

“Well, not this lady.” Blackburn arched a brow. “Stay away. She’s not for the likes of you.”

Derek finally took a drink. Not too deep of one. Just enough. Enough not to seem like a man who’d already hanged himself from a rather short rope. “Don’t I know it, old man. Don’t I know it.”

Chapter 9

Rosamund had discovered that she quite liked champagne. Champagne was even better paired with a book. And a book and champagne in front of a fire on Christmas with a pleasant companion? Surely, there was no greater bliss in the world.

As she scanned the print of the second volume of Tom Jones, she felt her eyes growing wide again at the young man’s antics.

Truly, if the fellow was around a female. . . He seemed incapable of keeping his breeches up. . . Despite his undying love for his childhood friend, Sophia. She took a long drink of champagne then turned the page and came across a rather shocking engraving. My goodness, was that young woman about to be ravished?

She studied the page. The lady’s gown was torn, her bosoms exposed and she was being dragged off. Yes, ravishment seemed nigh. But not by the hero.

“Your cheeks are a bright cherry.”

“Yes, well, your taste in literature is a bit more adventurous than mine.”

“I’m disappointed.” Tony gave her an exaggerated pout. “Are you saying, you don’t like it?”  

He sat in the chair by the fire, quite casual, one booted leg hooked over the cushioned arm as he read another novel. Apparently, the one he was reading was too shocking for her. . . Which meant that she was simply going to steal it later.

“I do like this book,” she finally said. “I love how bold the heroine is. I love a great deal about it. But must Tom act like a. . . A. . .”

“Randy sheep?”

She coughed. “Well he is forever. . .”

“Mounting things?” supplied Tony.

“My goodness you do have a way with words.”

“I could be more direct but I think we should take your education in degrees. After all, I don’t think you really wish the vocabulary of a Barbary whore.”

“Too late,” she moaned with dramatic sorrow. “Too late, Tony. You keep saying things like
Barbary whore
.”

“Do I?” he asked with a marked, and therefore false, note of surprise. It was a trait he’d, no doubt, gotten from his father. “I don’t usually with the ladies. You must make me forget myself.”

She eyed the intelligent but incorrigible fellow. “I don’t think anyone could make you forget yourself. You are far to calculated in your desire to shock, young man.”

“Oooooh.” He leaned forward, a dark lock of hair spilling over his bright blue eyes. “I do like that. Say it again.”

“What?”

He grinned. “Young man. You look so deliciously stern.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Tony, stop that.”

“Oh fine.”

“Now, we were discussing. . .” She hesitated.

“Randy sheep or young men who love to drop their breeches?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Well, what are you unclear about?” he asked, leaning back, his book still open in his large hand.

She searched for the words, words she didn’t seem to possess. “It does seem Tom is forever—“

“Rogering the ladies?”

“
Tony!”

“You’re not allowed to be shocked, Rosamund,” he warned. “You’re the one who showed up on Da’s doorstep hoping to be rogered yourself. I am merely the innocent victim here, doomed to be your tutor in the ways of nefarious and disappointing masculinity.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. He added such a touch of drama and self-pity to his voice.

“Point to you, Master Tony, but you did say you wished to save me from the knowledge of a Barbary whore.”

He raised his brows, astonished. “Did I?”

“Not two minutes ago,” she drawled.

“Ah. Well, I do think a good memory is unforgivable don’t you?” He winked. “Perhaps it doesn’t suit me to explain the waywardness of the lads.”

She arched a single eyebrow and glowered at him.

He threw down his book and raised his hands. “Stop! Stop! You could kill a man with that look.”

She laughed. “Why, thank you. We call it
the eye
, in my family. My grandmother had it as well.”

“Your grandmother was, no doubt, a fascinating woman.”

“Oh yes.”

“Acquainted with wayward young men?” Tony ventured.

She nodded. “She’s the entire reason I can even be on this particular adventure. She gave me my independence and all that.”