Romancing the Duke (12 page)

What was he coming to, when a woman sat in his lap, he gave her a stern what-for . . . and then ten seconds later, oopsy-daisy and la-di-dah, he went and
twirled a finger in her hair
?

That was not ducal behavior. It certainly wasn’t normal behavior for him.

He tried to nonchalantly withdraw his finger from its embarrassing predicament, but he recoiled too quickly. The curling strand of hair tightened around his knuckle like a slipknot.

He tried again, pulling harder. Panic began to build in his chest.

Dear God, it wouldn’t let him go.

“Stop,” she whispered, shushing him. “Do you feel that?”

He felt a lot of things. Far too many things.

“It almost seems as if the ground is trembling.”

Oh. That. Yes, now that she mentioned it, he did feel the shiver in the soles of his feet. The ground
was
trembling. Someone was approaching in the drive.

Not just someone, but many someones.

He discerned not only hoofbeats but the smoother clack of carriage wheels.

Ransom shut his eyes and quickly reviewed England’s recent military history. The Danes, Napoleon, the Americans . . . all those conflicts had been settled, last he knew. But then, he had been living in isolation.

He asked, “In the past seven months, has England entered any new wars?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she answered. “Why?”

Because by now the vibration had become so intense, he could have believed the castle was under siege.

She clutched his arm. “Goodness. What is that?”

“Am I going mad, or . . . ?” He trained his ear. “Was that a trumpet?”

“It was,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”

He didn’t miss the ominous note in her voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She leapt from his embrace and began pacing the floor. “I knew it. I knew it would happen eventually, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

He stood and took her by the shoulders, holding her in one place. He might be blinded, weakened, and on the verge of madness—but while there was still life in him, no harm would come to a woman living under his roof.

“Be calm,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re on about. At once.”

“It’s them. They’ve found me.”

Chapter Twelve

W
ho’s found you?” he asked.

Izzy winced at the prospect of spilling the truth. Within minutes, there wouldn’t be any hiding it. But the duke wasn’t going to like this. Not at all.

She was preparing to explain when Ransom took her by the shoulders.

His brow was stern. “Now listen to me. I don’t know who they are or what they want from you. But while there’s breath in my lungs and strength in my body, I swear this much: I won’t let you come to harm.”

Oh.

There he went again, making her knees go weak. Never in her life had Izzy been on the receiving end of such a pledge. At least, not one made spontaneously, and most certainly not delivered by such a man as this.

Words were momentarily beyond her. His protective promises had left her feeling rather dizzy. And a little bit guilty for worrying him so.

But only a little bit.

“It is an invasion,” she said, “but a friendly one. We’re getting a visit from the Moranglian Army. Come see, if you can.”

She brought him to the gallery of windows that looked out onto the courtyard.

There, visible through the archway, were approximately a score of mounted riders, followed by three coaches drawn by teams. The armored riders dismounted in unison, and the carriage doors opened, spilling forth about a dozen young ladies in medieval dress. Banners waved briskly in the morning breeze. Izzy couldn’t make out the words emblazoned on them, but she didn’t need to. She knew what they said.

Doubt not.

“Who are these people?” Ransom asked, as the riders and ladies walked through the archway and into the courtyard. “What the hell do they want?”

“I told you, my father’s more enthusiastic readers call themselves Moranglians. They have clubs and circular letters to share their news. And the particularly dedicated Moranglians . . . well, some of them take it a bit further. They enjoy dressing as the characters, acting out battles and scenes. They’re very well organized. There’s an oath they take, and badges.”

“What’s that god-awful clanking I hear?”

“It’s . . .” She sighed. “It’s armor.”

She risked a glance at the duke’s face.

As expected, he looked revolted. “Armor?”

“I know it makes no sense to you.” She reached for her embroidered shawl. “You don’t have to approve of it. Just don’t disparage them.”

Wrapping her shawl about her shoulders, Izzy leaned out the window and waved. “Good people of Moranglia!”

All the young men and women assembled in the courtyard turned and looked up at her. The knights, with their makeshift armor, fell into a formation.

One stepped forward and performed a deep genuflection. “My lady. I am Sir Wendell Butterfield, first knight of the West Yorkshire Riding Knights of Moranglia, also representing our sisters, the local chapter of Cressida’s Handmaidens.”

“You and your party have traveled far, Sir Wendell.”

“We have. Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Izzy Goodnight?”

“Yes, it’s I,” she called down, smiling. “Miss Izzy Goodnight. Your knights and ladies are most welcome here.”

While the crowd below cheered, Ransom made a gagging noise. “There you are with that treacly voice again.”

“Stop,” she chided, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. “I can’t spoil it for them. They mean well.”

“How do they mean well, showing up unannounced this early in the morning? What on earth can they want of you?”

“Just a visit, most likely. Perhaps a quick tour of the castle. But I won’t know for certain until I go ask, will I?”

She called down to Sir Wendell. “Good Sir Wendell, please be at ease. I’ll come thither anon.”

He reached for her. “Wait. You can’t let all those fancy-dress fools tromp through my castle. Thithering and anon-ing. I’m not having it, Goodnight.”

“It’s my castle. And I’m not inviting them for a house party, but I will show a modicum of hospitality toward my guests.”

“These are not guests. They’re uninvited intruders. Don’t
ask
them anything.
Tell
them to go.” He gestured in the direction of the dwindling, yet still-massive, heap of correspondence. “If you mean to claim this as your castle, there’s a great deal of work to be done.”

“Work will have to wait.” She shrugged away from him, moving toward the front entrance. “They’ve come all this distance. I can’t turn them away.”

“Certainly you can. It’s bad enough that they pester you with letters and questions. Draw a line, Goodnight. Go out there and tell them you’re a grown woman who can sling about the word ‘cock’ with the ease of a courtesan, and you don’t appreciate unannounced visits. Then invite them to sod off, the bunch of clanking idiots. If you won’t, I’ll do it.”

“No.” Panicked, Izzy put a hand to his chest, stopping him in his paces. “Your Grace, please. I won’t invite them inside the castle if you don’t like. I’ll send them away as quickly as I can. Just promise me you’ll stay upstairs, out of sight. Let me deal with this. Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want these people to see your face.”

R
ansom clenched his jaw.

So. His wrecked face wasn’t as disgusting as he’d been thinking all these months.

It was worse.

Apparently, he was such a horrifying monster, he needed to be locked away in the tower, lest he frighten the tenderhearted fools currently filling his courtyard.

Well. At least now he knew.

And today, his terrifying looks would be put to some use. He was going to clear out these intruders himself.

He pushed past her and exited the great hall, heading for the exterior stairs.

“Wait. Ransom, please.”

He ignored her, striding forward to stand on the topmost step. The crowd hushed at once. He heard a few gasps, and not all of them feminine, either.

Good.

“This is my castle.” His voice rang from the stones. “Rouse yourselves and begone.”

He swept his vision over the assembled inanity. The young ladies at the edges were a colorful assortment of blurs. Their gowns trailed behind them on the ground. The “knights” were a clash of metallic glints and silver flares.

Any moment now, they’d all run away. Exit through the archway like a rainbow pouring through a sieve. Any moment now.

Moments later, he was still waiting. They didn’t run away.

At last, the one called Sir Wendell found his voice. “All knights, salute!”

A
bang
echoed through the courtyard, as if they’d all thumped their fists against their armored chests in unison.

“All knights, kneel.”

With a wince-inducing clanking, the knights went down on one knee.

“Our liege. We are honored.”

What . . . the . . . devil.

They were supposed to run away screaming. Instead, they were kneeling and saluting. Ransom couldn’t understand it. Just what was going on here?

Miss Goodnight joined him, but she didn’t offer any explanation. “Sir Wendell, how can we be of help this morn?”

“We are on our way to the annual North Regional tournament, Miss Goodnight. Someone informed us of your presence in the neighborhood, and we couldn’t resist stopping by. We had . . . no idea.”

No idea of what, Ransom wondered. No idea of decorum? No idea of common sense?

“We’ll be on our way,” Sir Wendell promised. “But might we trouble you for so long as it takes to rest and water our horses?”

“Oh, please do visit the village!” Miss Pelham joined them on the step, breathless. She must have thrown on her frock and dashed down the stairs. As usual, she wouldn’t miss any chance to promote the goods and services of the parish.

“It’s just a half mile down the road,” she said. “That way. The stables here at the castle are small, but the inn in Woolington can offer you fresh water, hay. There’s a smith, if you need him. And a pub that serves a fine breakfast. The village would be most happy for your custom.”

Sir Wendell bowed. “An excellent suggestion. Thank you, Miss . . .”

“Pelham. Miss Abigail Pelham. My father is the local vicar.”

Yes, indeed, Ransom silently concurred. Thank you, Miss Pelham. By this point, he didn’t care who convinced these people to go. Just so long as they went.

As the knights gathered and made plans to depart, one of the young ladies approached them on the stairs. “Miss Goodnight, please. While the men take the horses to the village, might we stay here? We would so love to have a visit with you. Perhaps a chance to see your castle?”

“I’m afraid the castle isn’t fit for visitors just yet,” Miss Goodnight answered quickly, and sweetly. “But perhaps you’d be so good as to join me for a walk in the castle park? There are some romantic-looking ruins I’ve been yearning to explore.”

“Oh! That sounds divine.” The girl motioned to her friends, and all dozen of them rushed up the stairs.

A girl in some shade of blue or violet sidled up on Ransom’s right. “You will walk with us, won’t you?”

“Yes, you must join us.” A young woman in white took his left side, boldly threading her arm through his.

Before he knew what was happening, Ransom was swept along as they set out on a walk through the castle park. Magnus trotted along at his heel.

Damn his eyes. Why was he taking a walk? He didn’t want to take a walk. But no one left him a choice. He was surrounded. And very confused.

He’d never had difficulty attracting female attention before his injury. But those attracted to him were women—worldly and self-possessed. Not impressionable, silly girls. And was he going mad, or had they simply not noticed the scar mangling one side of his face?

Good Lord. One of them pinched his
arse.
Then all of them giggled.

“Won’t you say it for us?” the girl in blue urged him.

“Say what?” he asked.

“You know,” she whispered coyly. “Say ‘Doubt not.’ Won’t you, please? We’ve been dreaming of it since we were little girls.”

Their group drew to a halt in the overgrown garden. The whole gaggle of ladies went breathless with anticipation.

“Doubt not,” he echoed, hardly understanding why.

A chorus of feminine sighs rose up.

“Oh,” swooned one. “That voice. Be still my heart. It’s so romantic.”

God above. This couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of nightmare.

“Handmaidens,” Miss Goodnight called out in that childish, innocent voice, “do you see it there in the distance? The ruined folly. Do dash ahead, if you will. I’m so keen to see who can pick the largest posy of briar roses by the time I meet you there.”

With a little squeal, the dozen young ladies picked up their skirts and dashed ahead, racing one another toward the horizon.

“There,” Miss Goodnight said. “They’re occupied for a few minutes, at least. Now I can explain.”

“You had better explain. What the hell is going on? What’s this ‘doubt not’ nonsense?”

She took his arm, and they began walking toward the folly. Slowly.

“It’s a famous speech from
The Goodnight Tales
. Ulric recites it to Cressida just before he leaves on a quest. ‘Doubt not, my lady, I shall return.’ It goes on and on. Doubt not my steel, my strength, my heart . . .”

“Why do they want
me
to say it?”

“I’m afraid you won’t like to hear this,” she said, sounding doleful. “But you bear a certain resemblance to him.”

“Me? I look like Ulric?”

“Yes. Just uncannily so. Broad shoulders, longish golden brown hair, unshaven . . . You’re a near-perfect match, straight down to the weathered boots.”

“But . . .” Ransom frowned. So this was why she wanted him to hide upstairs. “Surely this Ulric character doesn’t have a scar.”

“He does, as a matter of fact. Ever since episode thirty-four, when he battled the Shadow Knight in the forest of Banterwick.”

He inhaled slowly. This was all starting to make sense to him. Sick, stomach-turning sense.

He pulled her to a halt, turning her to face him.

His eyes were good this morning. As good as they ever were now. He could avoid the stump in his path and make out the vague shapes of the trees and ruined archways, if not the color or form of the birds winging through them.

It was the cruelest of temptations, seeing this much of her and knowing he’d never see more.

He could make out the wide, reddish curve of her mouth and that aura of dark hair, set against the pale . . . was it yellow? . . . of her frock. But he couldn’t see well enough to judge her emotions.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. “This is all a little story in your mind. Since the day you arrived, you’ve been living out some bizarre fantasy. Your own little castle, and your own scarred, tortured Ulric. That’s why you won’t leave this place and why you won’t let me be. Why you come down every morning and watch me
sleep
. I’m like a plaything.”

“No,” she protested. He could see her head shake vigorously. “No, no, no.
I’m
not living in a fantasy.”

“Get one thing clear, Miss Goodnight. You had better not be forming expectations.”

“Expectations of what?”

“Of me. Of us. Of romance. Just because you grew up on all those fanciful stories, don’t think this is one of them. I won’t be a party to any of this. I’m not the shining hero in disguise.”

She exhaled audibly. “I know. I
know.
You’re a dangerous ravisher, with brothel bills as long as my arm. Really, I can’t imagine you have any remaining ways to communicate the message, short of stitching ‘A WARNING TO WOMEN’ on your breeches placket. I’m not a ninny. It’s understood. I have not cast you in any chivalric fantasy.”

“Oh, no? Then why did you kiss me like that the first night?”

Her reply was slow in coming. “Just . . . how
did
I kiss you the first night?”

“Like you wanted to,” he accused. “Like you’d always wanted to. Like you’d spent years waiting for just that kiss. From me.”

She covered her face with one hand and moaned. “Why must this be so mortifying? Oh, that’s right. Because it’s my life.”

Ransom kept silent, waiting for an explanation.

She lowered her hand. “Believe me, Your Grace. You will never meet another woman with fewer expectations of romance. You’ve seen how Lord Archer and Miss Pelham and all these people treat me—like a naïve little girl. Everyone’s always treated me that way. I’ve never had even one suitor. So yes, I kissed you like I’d been waiting to kiss you all my life. Because I’d been waiting to kiss
someone
all my life. Yours just happened to be the lips that met mine.”