Romancing the Duke (22 page)

He had so much more inside him if only she could find the way to reach it. Passion. Devotion. Love. Somewhere deep inside him was a true and constant heart, struggling to emerge from under all the scars and pride. Some part of her had known it from the first day, when he’d carried her in his arms.

“Ransom,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I hope—”

“Wait.” He shushed her, frowning. “What the devil am I hearing?”

R
ansom was listening to sounds he’d hoped never to hear again. The clop of hooves, the clack of wheels—and the ceaseless clanking of cut-rate armor.

Bloody hell. They’re back.

“They’re early,” she said.

She’d known about this? “Izzy, you didn’t.”

“I did. Please don’t be angry.”

As if he could be angry with her. He rose from bed and went to the window, unwillingly and inexorably at once—as if drawn by the sight of a carriage wreck. That familiar silvery rainbow of people poured into the courtyard.

They’d been invaded by the Moranglians again.

Izzy joined him at the window. “I know. I know how you feel about them. But we’re desperate for help. We can’t be particular.” She called down to the men filling the courtyard with their obnoxious clanking. “We are honored, Sir Wendell! How good you are to heed my summons in our hour of need.”

From the courtyard, a voice floated up. “Doubt not, Miss Goodnight. We have returned from thither to offer our service anon.”

Ransom wrested her away from the windows. “Izzy, no. No. I’m supposed to be displaying my sanity and competence in all things ducal. Having the castle overrun by delusionals with play swords and an unnatural fondness for the words ‘thither’ and ‘anon’ is not going to help.”

“We don’t have a choice. There’s no time left to find, train, and outfit servants locally. These people want to help. They’ve drilled to act in unison, and . . . well, they do have matching attire.”

“They are wearing breastplates from some blacksmith’s scrap heap. It’s hardly proper livery.”

“I know it’s unusual, but we’ll play it off as my eccentricity,” she said. “You know how everyone sees me. I’m a dreamy little girl, living in my father’s storyland.”

Damn it, he hated that she had to pretend that. He especially hated that she had to pretend one more moment of it for his sake.

“You’re forgetting one more problem,” he said. “Which is that all these people have me mistaken for their hero. They’ll be calling me Ulric.”

“No, no. You’re the one who’s mistaken. Everyone understands that stories are just stories. These people never believed you were Ulric. They just think . . . Well, they think you’re one of them.”

“One of
them
?”

“Yes. Ransom, they’d gladly be your friends if you’d let them.”

Friends.

Friendship with these people was not what he needed. But the hard truth of it was, he did need servants. He couldn’t appear to be moldering in a decrepit castle alone with his valet. Even though that’s exactly what he had been doing up until a few weeks past.

“Just give them a chance,” she whispered, kissing his cheek before she descended to greet her adoring throng. “Do it for me?”

Do it for me.

The woman had no idea the trials he would suffer for her. A great deal more than this foolishness.

He’d imprisoned himself in this castle to rot. He’d cut off all contact with the outside world. And just when he thought he’d burned all his bridges, this woman—this impossible, sweet, foolish woman—arrived, determined to swim the moat. Breach his defenses. Make a home. Stay.

If not for her, this room would still be filled with rats and bats. If not for her, he’d be sitting unshaven and drunk in the great hall, morosely counting his steps to nowhere. And if not for her, he would have no reason to fight this battle at all.

Perhaps he would have no title or fortune to offer her, but he was determined to see her safe.

Everything he did, from this point forward . . .

It was all for her.

Chapter Twenty-one

G
ather round, everyone. This will be our final time through the paces.”

Izzy called down from the window of the ducal chamber, addressing the assembled knights, handmaidens, servants, and friends below.

Tomorrow, the solicitors arrived. This would be their last chance to practice.

She cleared her throat, and called, “Take your places, please.”

The knights, cook, and servant-handmaidens disappeared inside, leaving only the Inquisitioners in the courtyard.

The “Inquisitioners” were Abigail and a few of the handmaidens who’d offered to pose as the visiting party. The girls had thrown themselves into the roles with enthusiasm, pulling their hair back into severe knots and donning dark, somber topcoats and beaver hats from the old vicar’s wardrobe. They’d even taken bits of kohl and drawn sideburns and moustaches on their faces.

Except for the occasional burst of giggling, they made a fair approximation of a stern-faced party of solicitors and doctors.

“Now, when the visitors arrive, Duncan will welcome them to Gostley Castle.”

Duncan opened the front door and bowed solemnly to the young ladies in costume. “Good afternoon, sirs. Welcome to Gostley Castle.”

“Excellent. And then he’ll show them into the—” Izzy turned to Ransom, who stood beside her in the upstairs room. “You’re sure you prefer the great hall? We do have the salon now. It’s a more manageable size.”

He shook his head. “It has to be the great hall. I know how the space works, how the echoes sound.”

“Then the great hall it is.” She turned and called from the window again. “Duncan will show them into the great hall.”

Duncan faced the “Inquisitioners” and tilted his head in invitation. “If the gentlemen would be so good as to follow me.”

The tittering young women followed him inside.

Izzy stepped away from the window. “This is where we wait. Once Duncan has them settled in the great hall, he’ll send one of the handmaidens up to knock.”

They lapsed into silence, just waiting. Izzy studied her shoes. She had new ones for tomorrow, but for today her old nankeen half boots would have to do.

Ransom, of course, only looked more magnificent with each passing day. Duncan had dedicated many tireless hours to the task of brushing, laundering, pressing, and polishing every item of attire in the duke’s wardrobe, and it showed.

His hair was still a touch overgrown, but she couldn’t bring herself to suggest a trim. He wore that fall of golden brown hair like a shield over his wounded brow. She worried he would feel vulnerable without it.

“Don’t be anxious about anything,” she said. “We’ve planned every moment, made alternatives for any eventuality. And if all else goes wrong, there’s a last resort. Plan E.”

“Plan E? What’s Plan E?”

“Snowdrop. If there’s an unforeseen problem, one of the handmaidens will release the ermine into the room. It will be a diversion, at least.”

His lips quirked to one side in that now-familiar manner.

She still didn’t quite know how to read the expression, but she was coming to think of it as a smile.

A knock came at the door.

“Right,” she said. “That’s our cue.”

She threaded her arm in his, and together they walked into the corridor and began heading downstairs to the great hall.

“I remember everything you told me,” she said. “Blaylock has ginger hair and spectacles. Riggett is the portly one, with narrow-set eyes. When we enter the hall, I’ll find them, and I’ll tap out their position on your arm. The first count will be Blaylock. The second, Riggett. As for the newcomers, we’ll have to rely on introductions. Duncan, should you need him, will always be just to the left of the entrance. Once you introduce me, I can take ov—”

He stopped in his paces. “Izzy.”

“Yes? Did I forget something?”

“This.” He bent his head and kissed her. Just a warm, lingering press of his lips against hers. “You seemed to need that.”

She exhaled. “I think I did. Thank you.”

All her drifting, scattered thoughts coalesced. His kiss was her anchor in the storm. So long as they could come away from this trial together, that was all that mattered.

When they entered the great hall, Izzy used their agreed-on system to point out the handmaidens designated as Blaylock and Riggett. Ransom acknowledged them with the slightest of nods in their general direction.

This was where his social rank worked in his favor. Ransom needn’t bow to anyone. He certainly didn’t shake hands. He needn’t offer to serve his guests drinks. Unless his vision was particularly gray, he could distinguish a person well enough to focus on him when speaking. For a duke, that was enough.

They walked to the grouping of freshly reupholstered furnishings near the hearth. Once again, Izzy used slight pressure against his arm to direct him toward an unoccupied chair.

Everyone was seated with a minimum of awkwardness.

“Excellent,” she said, beginning to breathe easier. This really needn’t be as difficult as it she’d feared it could be. “Once we’re all seated, it’s just a matter of chatting, drinking. Answering their questions.”

“Wrong,” Ransom said. “I’m going to be the one asking questions.”

“That’s all well and good, too. If the mood is amiable, I’ll offer them a tour of the castle. I’ll lead, of course, and you can bring up the rear. Once we’ve returned to the great hall, it will probably be time for dinner.”

In an instant, Ransom’s demeanor changed entirely.

Izzy’s heart sank. She’d been hoping he would take this well. But it would seem she’d hoped in vain.

He frowned. “What do you mean, dinner?”

D
amn it to hell. Ransom hadn’t counted on this.

“Why does there need to be a dinner?”

“With any luck, there won’t be a need,” she said. “But we must be prepared for the possibility. The solicitors will have traveled all this way from London. They’re going to be fatigued, hungry. We’ll probably have to offer them lodging for the night, too.”

He cursed.

“Don’t worry. I’ve planned everything, and we’ll walk through it right now. Duncan will invite us in to dinner.”

She motioned in Duncan’s direction, and the valet-cum-butler did as she asked, intoning, “Dinner is served.”

“Then you offer me your arm,” Izzy said, taking the arm in question before he’d offered it at all, “and we’ll lead the way to the dining room.”

As they walked down the corridor to the dining room, Ransom felt as though he were walking toward the gallows. Every step he took was one step closer to doom.

Dinner.
Of all the things. She couldn’t have set him up for failure any better if she’d arranged for a target-shooting demonstration.

They reached the dining room. They must have been planning this out. On either side of the endless dining table stood an armored row of knights, waiting at attention in their role as footmen. He heard a wince-inducing creak as one of them shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’ll suggest seats for our visitors.” She directed the costumed ladies in their oversized, dark coats to take various seats.

“You have to sit at the head of the table, of course.” She nudged Ransom toward the appropriate chair. “As hostess, I’ll need to be at the opposite end.”

In other words, miles away.

He caught her arm and pulled it, keeping her close. “We’re not doing this.”

“Please don’t panic.”

He clenched his jaw. “I don’t panic.”

“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I promise. I’ve arranged for all the courses to be served
à la russe.
All the courses are plated in the kitchen and served individually. No carving, no serving. It’s the newest style in France. We’ll seem fashionable.”

“I’m so glad you’ve thought this through,” he said tightly. “However—”

“The first course is soup, of course. That’s straightforward enough. For the meat course”—she motioned to one of the overgrown toy soldiers—“we have beefsteak.”

A plate appeared on the table before him.

She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

“I understand,” she whispered. “Ransom, you can’t think I haven’t noticed that you never eat in front of us. You’ll take a bit of bread, maybe, or a sandwich. But never a proper meal. So I tried eating a meal blindfolded, managing a knife and fork by touch. I made a hash of things before getting three bites in my mouth. I do understand.”

Her voice was sweet. But she spoke to him like a damned infant. And bloody hell, she did
not
understand.

She took his hand and guided it around the plate. “I’ve made arrangements with Cook. Everything on your plate will be in bite-size pieces, save for the bread. Buttered roll at twelve o’clock, then beef from three to seven. Potatoes and broad beans from eight to twelve.” She put a fork in his hand. “Go on, try.”

“Izzy . . .”

She touched his shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. I know you can do this.”

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm. “I will eat when and where and how I wish. I don’t need things cut in pieces for me. I’m not a child.”

There it was, sitting on the table before him . . . All the frustrations of his life, dished up on one plate.

Here, Your Grace, have a serving of helplessness. With an accompaniment of bitter humiliation.

This—this, right here—was madness. He’d been a fool to agree to this plan. Within five minutes at the dinner table, his solicitors would see him for what he was: a blinded wretch. At best, he would be branded an invalid. At worst, he’d be institutionalized. He would lose his title, his fortune . . . possibly even his personal freedom.

And he would lose her. Any ability to protect her. Any chance to hold her tight and feel her sweet touch on his skin.

All because he couldn’t cut beefsteak in the dark. The sheer stupidity of it gutted him.

Meanwhile, the handmaidens whispered and giggled. The knights clanked in their armor. The scrape of metal on metal felt like fingernails raking through his brain.

“I’m not hungry.” He motioned toward the armored footman. “Take this away.”

No one moved.

“Take it,” he growled, “away.”

The armored idiot stepped forward and retrieved the plate. Ransom winced with each creak and clank. At the base of his skull, he felt a headache looming. It was like knowing a villain stood poised behind him with an ice pick, ready to stab at any moment.

That settled it. He was done with this. He rose from the table.

Izzy followed, stopping him before he even reached the corridor.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have known better than to surprise you. I know you must be exhausted. We’re all exhausted. We can try again later. Perhaps for now, you should go upstairs and rest.”

Now he needed a
nap
?

That was the final indignity.

He said, “We’re done with this. All of this. Thank your Morphinians for their time, and then send them all away.”

“Send them away?” She grabbed his sleeve, holding him in place. “We can practice for as long as it takes. But we can’t give up. There’s too much at stake for us both.”

“You don’t have to tell me what’s at stake.”

Her entire future hung in the balance. Ransom scarcely cared for himself anymore, but he had to make certain she’d be safe.

This plan of hers—passing himself as sighted, while dozens of fancy-dress dreamers looked on—simply wasn’t going to work. He could stand here and argue the facts of it, but he knew Izzy. She wouldn’t surrender that romantic optimism. Not with all her admirers standing about, hanging on her every word. She was too afraid of letting them down.

She was never going to choose Ransom over the goodwill and sweetmeats of a thousand strangers. Even if it was for the best.

So he would make the choice for her.

“I’m not giving up,” he said. “I’m changing the plan.”

“It’s on to Plan E!” one of the knights called out. “Plan E, everyone! Who has the ermine?”

“Not
that
plan,” Ransom said, gritting his teeth. To Izzy, he said, “There’s no time to lose. Go upstairs and get your wrap.”

“My wrap? Why? Where are we going?”

“To Scotland,” he said. “We’ll be married tonight.”

M
arried?

Izzy was speechless for a moment. Her brain was awhirl. There were children’s tops that spun slower than her thoughts were doing.

When at last she spoke, she did so carefully. And quietly, though there was no doubt that the assembled knights and handmaidens could hear everything.

“You want to be married? To me? Tonight?”

He pushed a hand through his hair. “I know. I don’t like the idea either, but it’s the only option. Get your things. We can reach the Scottish border in a few hours, at most.”

“But . . .”

“The advantages should be plain.” His voice was emotionless. “If we marry, that changes everything. At the very least, they’d wait to see if you’re pregnant with my heir. During that time, I can make certain you get the money you’re owed.”

“Well, that sounds very . . . transactional. I hope you’ll pardon the honesty, but this isn’t quite the romantic proposal a girl hopes and dreams to hear.”

“You’re twenty-six years old,” he said. “How many other proposals were you expecting?”

His cold words froze the breath in her lungs.

“Perhaps none,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to rejoice in one so unfeeling.”

“Grow up, Izzy. What are you waiting for? Some dashing hero? It’s time to stop living in this”—he waved his arms at the knights and handmaidens—“fairy tale.”

She stared at him, unable to believe the words coming from his lips.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she said, slowly understanding him. “You’re pushing me away because you’re afraid.”

“I’m not pushing you away. I believe I just offered to marry you.”

“In the most insulting, unappealing way possible.”

Wendell clanked a few steps forward and called out to them. “Can I offer my lady some assistance?”

“She’s not your lady,” Ransom shot back. “She’s Miss Goodnight. A grown woman. And it doesn’t matter how many of your granny’s tea trays you strap on your chest. They don’t make you a knight.”