The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (9 page)

“Which reminds me to inform you”—as though he’d forgotten!—“that I and my retinue will be intruding on your hospitality for the next week or so, perhaps through the next fortnight, until said business is concluded and I can return to my own estates.” He turned his dark gaze on Isla. “And there to await my bride,” he added, sounding amused.

“I, ah…that is….” The earl seemed distinctly nonplussed.

“Houseguests are indeed a burden,” the duke agreed mildly, shifting his attention back to the earl, “mayhap one that has been eased somewhat in recent hours.” Tristan’s reference to contract, and the bribe it entailed, made the earl color. Isla felt a small stab of satisfaction at her father’s expense, followed by a much larger stab of guilt.
Finally
, someone had called him out on his foolishness—but why did that person have to be the duke? Peregrine Cavendish complained constantly about the drain on his income posed by everyone else, when he was the greatest offender of them all.

“Indeed,” the earl managed.

Isla, so far, hadn’t spoken. Silence was easiest and, besides, she highly doubted that anyone—least of all the duke—wished themselves privy to her thoughts. Especially not if they knew the bile those thoughts contained. Now she found her gaze once again pinned by the duke. She’d just been about to absent herself, curtseying and slipping out as unobtrusively as possible, but she found herself rooted to the spot instead. The mixed smells of the outdoors clung to him and, beneath that, the faint scent of whatever scent he wore. Isla didn’t know any men who wore scent; she knew none who could afford such luxuries. His boots were made of extremely fine leather and came up to his knees. Anxious not to be thought studying him, she looked away.

“I shall return before dinner,” he informed her seriously, again as if this were the most normal thing in the world, “and see you then.” Her father stood smiling in the door like the idiot he was and, indeed, there was no trace of the previous night’s rancor in the duke’s demeanor. Even so she knew that the man she’d spoken with then, and the man she’d seen studying his tablemates in the dim light of the fire, was the real man and not this pleasant and courtly gentleman. This…was an act. She knew it in her heart, and she saw it in his eyes.

The duke was an exceptionally good actor, but for that residual coldness. He was good enough, certainly, to fool her father—but then again her father wanted to be fooled. He’d be happy so long as he was able to convince himself that he’d helped to arrange some sort of love match. Happy, and far less burdened by guilt. He’d also be far easier to control if whatever feeble sense of justice he still possessed wasn’t activated. Isla hated herself for the negativity of her thoughts, even as she knew them to be entirely accurate. Her father was a selfish, self-serving man; he’d see what he wanted to see, so long as he was given the opportunity to do so. And, clearly, Mountbatten intended to give him the opportunity—from now until, Isla was sure, that blessed moment when he finally quit the place.

She wondered how she’d survive in the meantime. As for what lay ahead beyond the next few weeks…she didn’t allow herself to think about it. That way lay insanity.

The duke smiled slightly, as if sensing her thoughts and relishing them; a faint twitch of the lip that promised nothing pleasant. He knew that, unlike her father, Isla understood him perfectly and labored under no illusions about the nature of his intentions. Their shared knowledge gave his smile an odd intimacy, making Isla acutely uncomfortable and, at the same time, aware that he was a man and she a woman. And that eventually, whether she willed it or no, he’d see her naked.

He turned and, with a final nod, departed.

Isla turned in the opposite direction, making herself scarce before her father had a chance to call her back for a further interview. He, no doubt, wanted to assuage himself on the score of his having played cupid. And indeed, anyone who didn’t know them and who saw them together would think that Isla and the duke were, if not fond of each other, then at least on good enough terms. They might mistake the glint in his eye for desire, or her shrinking back against the wall as the maidenly confusion occasioned—according to the ballads—by those first unnamable stirrings that would eventually blossom into same. In the right hands, at least.

When in reality the emotions were simple fear on her part and naked avarice on his. He looked at her the way she’d seen her father’s hound, Alex, look at a particularly thrilling piece of meat. Only Alex was oblivious to his surroundings at such moments, too absorbed in his own bliss to care who noticed, whereas the duke had wanted her to see.

She stifled a sob. If nothing else, she’d do her mourning in private where no one would ever know her true feelings—especially not the servants, and especially not Rowena. All she had, all she’d ever had, was her pride. She’d go into this with her head held high, convincing everyone that marriage to the duke was exactly what she wanted. Or at least that she wasn’t fearful of the rumors.

Rowena was in Isla’s room, curled up inside a moth-bitten wolf pelt in front of the fireplace.

She didn’t bother to acknowledge Isla who, to be honest, was growing a little sick of her sister’s dramatics. Rowena wasn’t the only one who had problems around this place. None of them exactly sat around eating sweetmeats all day and she was acting like this was her first brush with responsibility—which, Isla reflected, maybe it was. Rowena had never had anything expected of her, except to look pretty and attract a man.

And how much of this childishness, Isla remonstrated with herself, was Rowena’s fault? She’d done what she’d been trained to do—and now here they were, both of them, stuck. Isla concealed her true feelings better, that was all. She sat down on the padded hearth bench and faced her sister.

“You can marry Rudolph,” she said without preamble.

Rowena looked up. “What?” she asked, disbelieving. Even with her nose red and dripping and her eyes swollen, she still managed to look lovely. Isla didn’t resent her for it; admired her for it, in fact. She’d always been proud of her sister’s beauty and charm. Both were sweet, natural, and uncomplicated.

“I’ve spoken with the duke,” Isla told her, “and with our father.” She paused; for all that she’d thought of virtually nothing else since deciding to tackle this interview, she had no idea of what to say next. How could she possibly explain, in a way that wouldn’t hurt Rowena’s feelings?

For all that Rowena wanted to marry the duke about as much as she wanted to be transmogrified into a slug, rejection still stung. The last thing she wanted Rowena to think was that she’d been thrown over for her unlovely older sister in some fit of pique.

“Well,” she began, “our father has come to understand the error of his ways in attempting to separate you from Rudolph. He now believes that the best thing would be for you to follow your heart. The years weigh heavily on him, no doubt; I’m sure that he realized, when faced with the ultimate decision, that life is too short for true love not to be honored.”

All complete bunk, of course, but Isla thought her speech sounded pleasant.

“And the duke?” Rowena asked.

“Is inconsolable, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” Rowena agreed, perking up a little. She straightened her back, pulling the fur more closely about her, and regarded her sister with something of a queenly air. Now that she was getting her own way again, Rowena seemed on the path to a marvelous recovery.

Isla explained what had happened: that after deciding that it would only be fair to allow Rudolph to press his suit—and Isla was sure that, even now, Rudolph was en route to do exactly that—their father had offered the duke his other daughter as a poor second prize.

“I hope you’re not upset.”

“About what?” Isla ventured cautiously.

“That you’re second choice.”

“No,” Isla said, part chagrined and part relieved, “not at all.” On the one hand she was glad to avoid difficult topics—Rowena had clearly accepted both the story and Isla’s claim of every man’s devotion as her due—but on the other she was a bit put out that her sister was, even now, condescending to her. Rowena’s beauty might not have been such a burden to bear, if she had anything else going on in her head. But she kept her peace; if her sister wanted to think of the duke as pining for her, so much the better.

“I’m sure he’ll come to realize that he got the better end of the bargain,” Rowena said consolingly.

Isla laughed without humor.

“No, I mean it.” Her sister’s tone became uncharacteristically serious. “Really. I know I’m beautiful,” she said artlessly, “but I focus on that because I don’t have anything else. I’m not smart, like you. I’m not educated. I can’t read very well, or figure sums at all.”

“That’s not true. You’re smart, too.”

“Not like you.” Rowena smiled. “And
I
think you’re beautiful.”

“Really?” Isla asked, unexpectedly touched.

“Yes, really. You look like the girl from the fairytale, the one who ran off into the woods so the evil queen wouldn’t eat her heart.” She brushed her fingertips along one of Isla’s pinned back braids. “As white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as a raven’s wing. Isn’t that the line?” It was, but Isla hardly thought such poetry applied to her. She returned her sister’s smile all the same. The comparison was, especially coming from Rowena, a good compliment.

“You and Rudolph will be happy together,” Isla told her.

“And you?”

Isla shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Why did you do it?”

“What do you mean?” Isla asked disingenuously.

Rowena shook her head slightly, a small smile still playing about her lips. “Isla, I know I’m not brilliant but I’m not stupid, either. You caused this. For me. Why?” Rowena might, as she put it, not be brilliant, but she did have her moments of insight. As much as Isla had found her own argument quite compelling, Rowena plainly saw through it.

She had, after all, grown up in the same house and knew their father also.

And, Isla supposed, had realized that the same man who’d been willing to sell her into the hands of a madman wouldn’t suddenly discover the meaning of true love over breakfast. Or be struck by any sort of crisis of conscience; both ideas were equally ridiculous. Peregrine Cavendish was no doubt counting his new riches even as they spoke. One thousand guineas; Isla couldn’t even picture such wealth. Throughout Morven, an earl’s income varied greatly—from three hundred guineas per year to eleven thousand on some of the great estates. A duke, Isla had no idea what a duke’s income might be. There were numerous earls, but only a handful of dukes and Isla didn’t move in such rarified circles.

“I wanted you to be happy,” Isla said.

Rowena sniffed. “Do you really think that—that Rudolph is coming to see me?”

“You sent him a note, didn’t you?”

Rowena colored, confirming Isla’s suspicions. “How—how did you know?”

Isla shook her head slightly.
Because
I’m
not stupid
, she thought.

“Because I’ve known you these sixteen years,” she replied. And Rowena, for all her outward appearance of frivolity, wasn’t one to sit passively by as things happened that she didn’t want. She’d no doubt written to Rudolph, or made Rose do so—Rose knew her letters a little better than Rowena did—as soon as she’d had the chance and then retreated into her room until he arrived to save her.

If Rowena
had
run off with Rudolph, if she’d been able to somehow talk him into doing something so stupid, if love or lust or whatever he felt had made him take leave of his senses to such a degree, then his house and hers would have faced a catastrophe of epic proportions and one that neither House Cavendish nor House Bengough was strong enough to withstand. Apart from the wrath of the duke, and the king, there would have been the issue of Rudolph’s inheritance. Even if he’d still been allowed to inherit, after a near mortal insult to the king’s own brother in stealing his bride literally from underneath his nose, how could Rudolph’s father leave his estate in the hands of a man who’d shown such judgment? Isla thought it more likely that Rudolph would have come, pled his case within the confines of the law and, when he was rejected, done the honorable thing and left.

She thought back to her father’s words, about Rudolph being a weak link. Was he right? What would the duke have done, in a similar situation?

The duke, she realized, would never have found himself in such a situation in the first place. If he wanted a woman, for wife or otherwise, he’d take her. If he’d sat where Rudolph was sitting now, he’d have married Rowena last summer.

Suddenly Isla wanted very much to speak with her brother, the only man on this accursed estate with any sense.

H
art was in the practice yard, stripped down to his breeches and hammering some poor slob with a quarterstaff. He feinted, landing a glancing blow, and then turned to the side. Hart, sensing his opponent’s weakness, fell for the oldest trick in the book and leapt in for the kill. Two seconds later he found himself flat on his back in the mud, staring up at the sky and clutching his crotch. “Motherfucker!” he yelled at no one in particular, furiously but without rancor.