Romancing the Duke (2 page)

She turned her head, sliding her soft cheek into his hand. There she went again, nuzzling. The friction released gentle hints of a soft, feminine fragrance.

“Temptress,” he muttered bitterly.

If he had to have a swooning, nuzzling woman collapse on his doorstep, why couldn’t it be one who smelled of vinegar and old cheese? No, he had to get one scented of rosemary and sweet, powdered skin.

He pressed his thumb to her rain-splashed cheek. “For God’s sake, woman. Wake.”

Maybe she’d struck her head on the flagstones. He thrust his fingers into her upswept hair, yanking out her hairpins. There were dozens of them, it seemed, and with each one he pulled, the mass of hair seemed to grow wilder. Angrier. The curling locks tangled and knotted between his fingers, obstructing his explorations. By the time he’d satisfied himself that her skull was intact, he could have believed that hair was alive. And hungry.

But her skull
was
in one piece, with no knots or swellings that he could detect. And she still hadn’t made a sound.

Perhaps she was injured somewhere else. Or maybe her corset was too tight.

There was only one way to tell.

With a gruff sigh, he shook off his coat and turned up his sleeves. Rolling her onto her side, he brushed her predatory hair away and set his fingers to the task of undoing the buttons down the back of her frock. He was out of practice, but there were some things a man didn’t forget. How to undo a woman’s buttons was one.

How to unlace a woman’s stays was another.

As he yanked the laces from the corset grommets, he felt her rib cage expand beneath his palms. She shifted and released a throaty, sensual sigh.

He froze. Another surge of . . . something . . . pulsed through his veins, and this time he couldn’t dismiss it as some tender nonsense.

This was lust, pure and simple. He’d gone a dangerously long time without a woman in his arms.

He pushed the physical response aside. With brisk, businesslike motions, he pulled the sleeves of her frock down her arms, feeling for any broken bones along the way. Then he began working the bodice down to her waist. He couldn’t let her just lie there in wet sacking, or she’d catch a chill.

He would deserve a great deal of gratitude for this when she awoke—but somehow he doubted he’d get it.

I
zzy came to herself with a jolt.

She was indoors. Inside the castle. Pillars sprouted around her like ancient trees, soaring up to support the vaulted ceiling of a cavernous great hall.

Looking about, she saw scattered furnishings in various states of decay. The near end of the hall featured a massive hearth. If there weren’t a roaring fire in it, Izzy had no doubt she could stand inside that fireplace without even crouching. The blaze within fed not on splits of wood, or even logs, but on full tree trunks.

She lay on a dusty, lumpy sofa. A rough, woolen blanket had been drawn over her body. She peeked beneath it and cringed. She’d been divested of her frock, stays, petticoats, and boots. Only her chemise and stockings remained.

“Oh dear heavens.”

She put a hand to her unbound hair. Her Aunt Lilith was
right.
She’d always harped on Izzy during those summers in Essex. “It doesn’t matter that no one will see them,” she’d squawked. “Always—
always
—wear a clean shift and stockings. You never know when you might meet with an accident.”

Oh . . . dear . . .
heavens.
It all came back to her now. The rain . . . her swoon . . .

Izzy looked up, and there he was.

The Accident.

“You’re awake,” he said, without turning to confirm it.

“Yes. Where are my things?”

“Your valise is two paces inside the entry, to the right.”

Izzy twisted her neck and glimpsed the valise, right where he’d said it would be. It wasn’t moving or open. Snowdrop must still be asleep. That was a relief.

“Your frock is there.” He gestured toward where her frock hung over the back of two upright chairs, drying by the fire. “Your petticoats are draped over the far table, and your corset is on the other s—”

“Thank you.” Izzy wanted to die. The whole situation was mortifying. Swooning at a handsome stranger’s boots was embarrassing enough, but hearing him catalog her underthings? She clutched the blanket to her chest. “You needn’t have troubled.”

“
You
needed to breathe. And I needed to be sure you weren’t bleeding or broken anywhere.”

She wasn’t certain why that required undressing her to her shift. A quick glance would tell him if she were bleeding.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Are you with child?”

Her burst of laughter startled the dog. “Definitely not. I’m not the sort of woman who faints, I promise you. I just hadn’t eaten much today.”
Or yesterday, or the day before that.

Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Perhaps she was catching a cold. That would help explain the fainting, too.

Throughout this conversation, her host remained at the hearth, facing away from her. His coat stretched tight at the shoulders but hung a bit loose about his midsection. Perhaps he’d recently lost some bulk. But there was plenty of him remaining, and all of it was lean and hard. His body was much like this great hall around them. Suffering from a bit of neglect, but impressively made and strong to the bones.

And that voice. Oh, it was dangerous.

She didn’t know which upset her more: That this shadowy, handsome stranger had made so free with her person—carrying her in his arms, unlacing her stays, taking down her hair, and stripping her to her thinnest undergarments? Or that she’d somehow slept through the whole thing?

She snuck another glance at him, silhouetted by orange firelight.

The latter. Definitely the latter. The most exciting quarter hour of her life, and she’d spent it completely insensible.
Izzy, you fool.

But though she had no firm recollection of being carried in from the rain, her body seemed to have a memory of its own. Beneath her clothing, she smoldered with the sensation of strong hands on chilled flesh. As if his touch had been imprinted on her skin.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was good of you to carry me inside.”

“There’s tea. To your left.”

A chipped mug of steaming liquid sat on a table nearby—to her left, as he’d said. She took it in both hands, letting its warmth seep into her palms before lifting it for a long, nourishing draught.

Fire raced down her throat.

She coughed. “What’s in this?”

“Milk. And a drop of whisky.”

Whisky?
She sipped again, not in a position to be particular. When approached with the appropriate caution, the brew wasn’t so bad. As she swallowed, an earthy, smoky heat curled through her.

On the same table, she found a small loaf of bread and broke into it, famished.

“Who
are
you?” she asked between mouthfuls. Aunt Lilith would
not
be pleased with her manners.

“I’m Rothbury. You’re in my castle.”

Izzy swallowed hard. This man claimed to be the Duke of Rothbury? It seemed too much to believe. Shouldn’t dukes have servants to make their tea and dress them in proper attire?

God help her. Perhaps she was trapped with a madman.

Izzy drew the blanket close. Despite her doubts, she wasn’t going to risk provoking him.

“I didn’t realize,” she said. “Should I address you as ‘Your Grace?’ ”

“I don’t see the point of it. Within a few hours, I hope you’ll refer to me as ‘That ill-mannered wretch you importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.’ ”

“I don’t mean to be trouble.”

“Beautiful women are always trouble. Whether they mean to be or not.”

More teasing. Or more lunacy. Izzy wasn’t sure which. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was no kind of beauty. It didn’t matter how she pinched her cheeks or pinned back her aggressively curly hair. She was plain, and there seemed no getting around it.

This man, however, was anything but ordinary. She watched him as he tossed more wood on the blaze. He added a log as thick as her thigh, but he handled it with all the ease of tinder.

“I’m Miss Isolde Goodnight,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard the name.”

He poked the fire. “Why would I have heard the name?”

“My father was Sir Henry Goodnight. He was a scholar and historian, but he was most well-known as a writer.”

“Then that explains why I don’t know him. I am not a reader.”

Izzy looked to the arched windows. The afternoon was darkening. The lengthening shadows worried her, as did the fact that she’d yet to make out the entirety of her host’s face. She was growing anxious to see him, look into his eyes. She needed to know just what sort of man held her at his mercy.

“It seems Lord Archer might be some time yet,” she ventured. “Might we have a candle or two while we wait?”

After a grudging pause, he took a straw, lit it in the fire, and, carefully cupping the flame with one palm, moved it to a taper fixed atop the mantel.

The task seemed to cause him inordinate difficulty. The candlewick caught, but he held the straw in place until it burned down to his fingertips. He cursed under his breath and whipped it with his hand, shaking out the flame.

“I hate to be a bother. It’s just that I’m . . .” She didn’t know why she was admitting it, except that she felt sorry he’d burned himself to increase her comfort. “I’m not fond of the dark.”

He turned to her, bearing the candle. One side of his wide mouth tipped, like a scale weighted with irony. “I haven’t made my peace with it either.”

The new flame cast golden light on his face. Izzy startled. His sculpted, aristocratic features did much to bolster his claim of being a duke. But something else about his face told a different story.

A dramatic, uneven scar sliced from his brow to his temple, ending on the crest of his right cheekbone. Though the candle flame flickered and sparked, his eyes didn’t narrow or focus.

Of course.

The realization flared within her. At last, something about this day made sense.

It all made sense.

The darkened room, his refusal to read her letter, his manual assessment of her health. His repeated mentions of Izzy’s beauty despite what should have been ample evidence to the contrary.

He was blind.

Chapter Two

R
ansom remained still, letting the candle illuminate the mangled side of his face. He’d been keeping his distance to spare her this, but she’d requested the light.

So he waited, allowing her a good, long look.

No shrieks, gasps of horror, or soft thuds as she hit the floor. Not this time. She exuded nothing but that same teasing fragrance of rosemary.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the candle.”

Her voice was even more alluring than her scent. She had the accent of a sheltered English miss—but with an undeniably husky, sensual undertone.

“Has it been a long time since your injury?” she asked. “Were you wounded in battle? A duel? An accident?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m fond of long stories.”

He plunked the candlestick on the table with finality. “Not this one.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s terribly forward of me to ask. I had decided against it. But then I thought, surely you must
know
that I’m wondering. If I pretended sudden interest in the ceiling or the weather, that would be an insult of sorts, too. And you seem the sort of man who’d prefer honesty—even the uncomfortable kind—to insincerity, so I just”—her voice dropped a half octave—“decided to ask.”

She went quiet. At last.

He was irritated with his body’s response to her presence. Her femininity was like a lacy blanket taking up his favorite chair. Not something he would have brought into the room, but since she was there . . . he couldn’t deny that a scarred, neglected part of him craved that softness.

Hell, he
ached
for it, straight to his bones.

“Very well, I won’t press you for the story behind it,” she said lightly, “but be forewarned. I shall probably make one up.”

“Make up as many stories as you wish. Just don’t make me the hero in them.”

“When can we expect Lord Archer to arrive?”

Damned if Ransom knew. He hadn’t the faintest idea who this Archer might be. “There’s been some misunderstanding. Whoever it is you’re searching for, he isn’t here. My manservant will be returning soon. I’ll have him see you back to Woolington.”

She hesitated. “Then I suppose I should dress.”

“Go on.” He waved in invitation. “There’s no dressing room. And if you haven’t gathered as much by now, you needn’t wait for me to avert my eyes.”

Just the same, he turned to the wall. He clucked his tongue, calling Magnus to heel.

Behind him, light footsteps padded across the floor. The rustle of petticoats grated on his calm. He reached down to give the dog a light scratch.

“There’s quite a mountain of correspondence on your table,” she pointed out. “Are you very sure a Lord Archer didn’t write to you?”

Ransom considered. True, he couldn’t be sure of anything that pertained to his written correspondence lately. Duncan had many useful skills, but none of them could be described as secretarial.

“It’s just . . . I’m grateful for the offer of transport to Woolington,” she said. “But I don’t know where I’d go from there. I see you’ve emptied my purse onto the table. You must have noticed how little was in it.”

He had noticed. She had exactly three shillings, ten pence in her purse. No jewelry of any value. He hadn’t searched the valise, but it weighed almost nothing.

“If you force me out tonight, I’ve nowhere to go.”

Ransom heard the slight waver in her voice.

He shut his ears to it.

He couldn’t fathom why a young, unaccompanied woman would make the journey alone to the middle of Northumberland by the grace of her last few shillings.

But this Miss Goodnight needed to say good-bye. He wished her no ill, but he had nothing to offer her, either. If she was looking for a rescuer, she’d found the wrong man.

“My manservant can take you to the village church,” he said. “Perhaps the vicar’s—”

Magnus’s ear perked under his touch. The dog’s skull vibrated with a low, nearly inaudible growl.

A moment later, Ransom heard the sound, too. Hoofbeats coming up the road. An unfamiliar rhythm. It couldn’t be Duncan. “Perhaps this Lord Archer has come for you after all.”

She released a breathy sigh. “Thank heaven.”

“Indeed.”

In a matter of moments, the intruder’s steps sounded in the courtyard. “Hullo, there? Miss Goodnight?”

She flew to the window and called down. “Up here, my lord. The great hall.”

Once the man entered the hall, his steps arrowed straight toward their place near the hearth. Confident, clipped. Much too fast.

Ransom gritted his teeth. Damn, he hated this. Being at this constant disadvantage, unable to control the situation.

The fireplace poker was close at hand. He lifted it. “Stop there.”

The footsteps halted, some ten feet away. He felt the fresh source of scrutiny burning over his scarred face.

“Is that . . . ? But it can’t be.” The newcomer took one step forward. “Rothbury? Good God. It’s like coming face-to-face with a ghost.”

“I don’t know you,” Ransom said.

“No, but I know you.” Archer lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was on the guest list, you see. Bride’s side.”

Ransom steeled his jaw and kept his expression impassive. He wouldn’t give this cur the pleasure of a reaction.

“No one’s seen you in months,” Archer went on. “The rumor about Town is that you’re dead.”

“Well, the rumor has it wrong.”

The truth was even worse.

Ransom gave the poker a meaningful tap against stone. This was his castle. He didn’t answer questions here; he asked them. “Explain yourself. What are you doing, luring unsuspecting women to my home?”

“To
your
home?” Archer chuckled in a low, disconcerting way. “Well, this should prove interesting.”

I
zzy felt as though she’d wandered into the third act of a play. She had no idea what was going on, but it was unbearably dramatic.

Lord Archer did make a fine-looking player. She was comforted by his starched cravat and fitted gloves. Signs that civility still existed somewhere in the world.

“If you’ll permit me to speak with Miss Goodnight,” Archer said, unperturbed by the makeshift weapon leveled at his chest, “I think you’ll find all your questions answered.”

The Duke of Rothbury—for it would seem he
was
the duke, after all—lowered his poker. Grudgingly. “Speak.”

Lord Archer turned to Izzy. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So. I’ve been most anxious to meet the famous Izzy Goodnight. My nieces will be green with envy.” His enthusiasm faded as he looked her over. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected.”

Izzy held back a sigh. She never was.

“I always pictured you as a wide-eyed child,” he said.

“I was twelve when my father’s stories began appearing in the
Gentleman’s Review.
But that was almost fourteen years ago. And, in the natural way of things, I’ve aged one year every year since.”

“Yes.” He shook his head. “I suppose you would have.”

Izzy merely smiled in response. She’d long made a habit of rationing her remarks when speaking with her father’s admirers. The Lord Archers of the world didn’t want Izzy to be a grown woman with her own set of likes and dislikes, dreams and desires. They wanted her to be the wide-eyed young girl of the stories. That way, they could continue to read and reread their beloved tales, imagining themselves in her place.

For that was the magic spell of
The Goodnight Tales.
When they settled down with each weekly installment, readers felt themselves tucked beneath that warm purple quilt. They saw themselves staring up at a ceiling painted with silver moons and golden stars, their hair fanned across the pillow for a loving father’s hand to stroke. They looked forward to that same, familiar promise:

Put out the light, my darling Izzy, and I shall tell you such a tale . . .

The truth of her childhood didn’t match what was printed in the magazines. But if she ever let it slip—oh, how people resented her for it. They looked at her as if she’d just ripped the wings off the Last True Fairy in England.

Lord Archer sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward her in confidence. “Say, I know you must be asked this all the time. But my nieces would garrote me with their skipping ropes if I didn’t try. I don’t suppose your father . . .”

“No, my lord.” Her smile tightened. “I don’t know how Cressida escapes from the tower. And I’m afraid I’ve no idea of the Shadow Knight’s true identity.”

“And Ulric’s still dangling from that parapet?”

“As far as I know. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind it.” He gave her a good-natured smile. “It’s not your fault. You must be more tortured by the uncertainty than anyone.”

You have no idea.

Tortured by the uncertainty, indeed. She was asked these same questions at least three times a week, in person or in letters. When her father died suddenly of an apoplexy, his ongoing saga had been interrupted, too. His beloved characters had been left in all sorts of perilous situations. Locked in towers and dangling from cliffs.

Izzy found herself in the most desperate straits of all. Stripped of all her possessions, cast out of the only home she’d ever known. But no one thought to inquire after
her
well-being. They all worried over Cressida locked in her tower, and her beloved Ulric, hanging by three fingers from the parapet.

“My father would be most gratified that you asked,” Izzy told him. “I’m thankful, too.” It was the truth. Despite her current circumstances, she was proud of the Goodnight legacy.

Over by the hearth, the duke cleared his throat.

“My lord,” she said, “I think our host is eager to have us gone. Might I ask about this bequest my godfather left me?”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Archer rummaged in a small portmanteau. “I’ve brought all the papers with me. We can have it done today. Rothbury can hand over the keys if there are any.”

“Keys?” She sat tall. “I don’t understand.”

“Your inheritance, Miss Goodnight. It’s this. The castle.”

Her breath left her. “
What?
”

In a dark voice, the duke protested, too. “Impossible.”

Lord Archer squinted at the documents. “Here we are. ‘To Miss Isolde Ophelia Goodnight, I leave the property known as Gostley Castle.’ Is it pronounced like ‘Ghostly’ or ‘Ghastly’? Either one seems accurate.”

“I thought the bequest was money,” Izzy said, shaking her head. “A hundred pounds, perhaps two.”

“There is no money, Miss Goodnight. Just the castle. Lynforth had several goddaughters, and apparently he gifted them with too few ponies or hair ribbons over the years. In the last months of his life, he decided to leave each of them every girl’s dream. Her very own castle.”

“Now wait,” the duke interrupted. “This castle has been in my family for hundreds of years.”

Archer looked at the papers. “And apparently it was sold to Lynforth just a few months back.” He looked over his papers at Izzy. “I take it you’re surprised by this?”

“I’m stunned,” Izzy admitted. “The earl was kind to me, but he wasn’t even my godfather. Not properly. He was my father’s patron at Court.”

Izzy had been introduced to Lord Lynforth a few times, most recently when Papa received his knighthood. On that illustrious occasion, the dear old man had slipped Izzy a sweetmeat from his waistcoat pocket and given her a fond pat on the head. Never mind that she’d been mere days from her twenty-second birthday. His intentions were kind.

Now the dear old man had left her a castle?

A castle.

Archer pressed the folio of papers into Izzy’s keeping. “It’s all there. A copy of the will, the property deed. This castle and everything in it—it’s yours now.”

She blinked at the folio. “What am I to do with the place?”

“If you don’t want to live in it?” Lord Archer looked at the soaring ceiling and shrugged. “I suppose you could clean it up. Try to sell—”

Crash.

Izzy ducked as something exploded against the far wall.

She looked around for the source. She didn’t have to search far. In another fearsome explosion of strength, the duke picked up a chair and sent it sailing against the wall, too.

Crash, part second.

Splintered wood cascaded to the floor.

In the aftermath, he stood working for breath, every muscle tensed and coiled with energy. He was a magnificent, volatile, and undeniably
virile
portrait of anger. Izzy was torn between admiration and fear.

“She can’t have it,” he said. “She can’t live in it. She can’t clean it up to sell.” He pounded one fist against his chest, and the small hairs on Izzy’s arms lifted. “I am Ransom William Dacre Vane, the eleventh Duke of Rothbury. This is
my
castle.”

The wolf-dog growled. Tension crackled and filled the great hall, right up to the vaulted ceiling.

Lord Archer shuffled papers at his leisure. As though furniture hadn’t recently exploded. “Yes, well. Duke or not . . . Matters don’t seem to have gone your way recently. Have they, Rothbury?”

The duke didn’t reply. Unless one counted palpable seething as a reply—in which case, he replied quite fiercely.

“I’m afraid the papers are clear,” Archer said. “The castle is Miss Goodnight’s now.”

“It can’t be,” the duke replied. “Because I didn’t sell it.”

“When a man drops off the face of England for seven months, I should think his solicitors begin handling matters.” Archer cast a glance at the long table heaped with unopened envelopes. “Most likely, the information is somewhere in that postal avalanche.”

Izzy stared at the folio in her hand. She’d arrived with an empty purse and a growling belly. She still had an empty purse and a growling belly. But now she had a castle. And there was a duke in it.

“Well, then. That’s done. I’ll be off.” After snapping the portmanteau closed, Lord Archer picked up his case and moved as though he would quit the room.

“Wait.” Izzy lunged after him, catching him by the sleeve. She lowered her voice. “You mean to just leave me here? Alone, in this . . . this ghostly
and
ghastly castle? Surely not.”