Duke of Midnight
Scarborough winked back.
But Lady Penelope was already leaning forward, nearly dipping her abundant cleavage in her fish, to say earnestly to Scarborough, “I’m so thankful you agree, Your Grace. You would not credit it, but Artemis just last week said she didn’t care one way or the other if her tea was taken with blue figured china or red!”
Scarborough inhaled sharply. “You don’t say!”
“Indeed.” Lady Penelope sat back, having delivered this terrible breach of etiquette. “I have both, naturally, but wouldn’t dream of serving anything but coffee in the red, although sometimes”—she peeked coquettishly at Scarborough through her eyebrows—“sometimes I do serve chocolate in the blue.”
“Naughty thing,” the elderly duke breathed.
Maximus did sigh aloud at that, though no one seemed to notice. Was this truly the type of conversation he would have to endure once married? He stared broodingly into his wineglass and then glanced down the table to where Miss Greaves was laughing too loudly at something Mr. Watts had said. Somehow he doubted he would ever grow weary of her conversation. The thought was disturbing. He shouldn’t even be meditating on Miss Greaves—there was no room for her in his carefully ordered life.
“I suppose I ought not to blame poor Artemis,” Lady Penelope said with a thoughtful air. “She hasn’t my refinement—nor my sensitivity.”
Maximus nearly snorted. If refinement was quibbling over the type of china to serve chocolate in, then he supposed that Miss Greaves did indeed lack it—and he for one regarded her the better for it.
He looked down the table again and felt an irrational urge to push poor Mr. Watts out of his chair when Miss Greaves tilted her head toward him to hear something he’d said. He caught her eye briefly and she stared back in defiance, her mouth twisting tragically before looking away again.
Something was wrong. She was leaking emotion.
He sipped his wine, contemplating the matter. It was barely a few hours since he’d seen her in the woods this morning. Then she’d been as defiant as ever, no trace of weakness. The preluncheon entertainment had divided the ladies from the gentlemen. The latter had gone grouse hunting—with dismal luck—while the former had engaged in some sort of party game. Had something disturbed her during the games?
The arrival of dessert caught him by surprise, but he was glad to finish the luncheon. As the guests rose he took an abrupt leave of Lady Penelope and started down the room toward Miss Greaves.
But she was already making her way toward him.
“I trust your hunting went well, Your Grace,” she said when they met in the middle of the dining room, her tone brittle.
“It was awful, as I’m sure you’ve already heard,” he replied.
“I am so sorry,” she said quickly. “But then I suppose you’re not used to hunting in a rural setting.”
He blinked, slow to realize the direction she was taking. “What—?”
“After all,” she said, as smooth as a striking adder, “you do most of your hunting in London, don’t you?”
Mr. Watts who’d been lingering nearby, smiled uncertainly at her words. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Greaves?”
“Miss Greaves is no doubt referring to my duties in Parliament,” Maximus said through gritted teeth.
“Oh.” Mr. Watts’s brow crinkled in thought. “I suppose one could term some parts of a parliamentarian’s efforts as hunting, but truly, Miss Greaves—and I hope you’ll forgive my frankness—but it is an awkward way to characterize such—”
“Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t referring to the duke’s role in Parliament,” Miss Greaves said. “I said London and I meant London—the streets of London.”
Mr. Watts stiffened, his uncertain smile disappearing altogether. “I’m sure you did not mean to insult the duke by insinuating that he frequents the streets of London”—here a ruddy blush rose in Mr. Watts’s cheeks, presumably at the word street and all its connotations—“but you must be aware—”
It was Maximus’s turn to cut the poor man off. “Miss Greaves misspoke, Watts.”
“Did I, Your Grace?” Her chin was raised challengingly, but there was a desperate, vulnerable glint in her eyes. A glint that made him simultaneously want to shake her and protect her. “I’m not at all sure I misspoke. But then if you would like to have me quit this discussion, you know full well what you can do to stop me.”
He inhaled and spoke without thinking, ignoring their audience. “What has happened?”
“You know full well, Your Grace, for what—who—I fight.” Her eyes were glittering and he couldn’t believe it, but the evidence was clear.
Tears. His goddess should never weep.
He took her arm. “Artemis.”
Cousin Bathilda was there, suddenly, beside them. “We’ve a ramble planned to see the Fontaine Abbey ruins, Maximus. I’m sure Miss Greaves would like to ready herself.”
He swallowed, strangely loath to release her. His guests were turning to look, Lady Penelope had a slight frown between her eyebrows, and Mr. Watts seemed quite perturbed. He made himself unclench his fingers, take a step back, and nod. “Miss Greaves. Cousin Bathilda. In half an hour, shall we say? On the south terrace? I look forward to escorting you both to the ruins.”
And he made himself turn and stride away.
ARTEMIS COULD FEEL Miss Picklewood’s worried gaze on her as the house party tramped across a field toward the ruins of the old abbey. The older lady had made sure to pair Artemis with Lady Phoebe on the walk. Ahead of them, Lady Penelope was bracketed by the Duke of Wakefield on her right and the Duke of Scarborough on her left. Artemis squinted in the sunshine, watching Wakefield’s broad back. She sympathized with Miss Picklewood’s attempt to deflect a potential scandal, but she couldn’t let the other woman’s unease dissuade her from her own mission.
Apollo was dying.
The thought vibrated through her limbs with every casual step. She wanted to run to him. To hold her brother in her arms and reassure herself that she’d have at least one more moment with him.
Penelope tossed her head and laughed, the ribbons on her bonnet fluttering in the wind.
Artemis blinked, brought back from her own dark thoughts. “Do you think so? I’ve always thought Wakefield a man to himself. If he wants to walk away, he’ll do so without a backward glance.”
“Perhaps,” Phoebe said, “but at the moment what my brother wants is her. I wish sometimes that he’d pause a while and truly consider what it is he’s pursuing.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t?” Artemis said.
Phoebe glanced at her. “If he had, wouldn’t he have realized how ill-matched he and Penelope are?”
“You make the assumption that he cares.”
For a moment Artemis thought she’d caused insult with her blunt words. Then Phoebe slowly shook her head. “You forget. He may have a crusty exterior, but truly my brother isn’t as cold as the world thinks him.”
Artemis already knew that. She’d seen his face as he’d looked at Phoebe, watched his mouth as he’d sung with that beautiful voice. Let him show her his mother’s folly, walked with him in his woods accompanied by his sweet dogs. She knew he was a living, breathing man beneath the ice.
But she couldn’t think of him that way now. She must push aside the affinity she felt for him and sway him to her goal.
If she could only find a way.
She quickened her pace just enough that she and Phoebe began to overtake the trio in front of them. They were almost at the abbey ruins now—a row of gray stone arches that held up empty sky.
“Do you know,” she said to Phoebe as they got within earshot of the three, “I met another such cold man the other day. The Ghost of St. Giles struck me as a man with a heart like an icicle. Very like your brother, in point of fact. I’m surprised that the comparison has never been made before, for they are quite similar. Well, nearly. The duke seems rather cowardly next to the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Wakefield’s back stiffened in front of them.
“Artemis…,” Phoebe began, her voice both puzzled and horrified.
“Ah! Here we are, then,” Miss Picklewood boomed.
Artemis turned to find Miss Picklewood right behind them. Her eyes narrowed. The lady moved very quietly for her age.
“Now, Your Grace,” Miss Picklewood said brightly, speaking to Scarborough. “I believe I once overheard you telling my dear cousin, the late duchess, some terribly interesting ghost stories about the abbey. Perhaps you’ll refresh my memory.”
“Your memory, Miss Picklewood,” Scarborough said, bowing gallantly, “is as sharp as a razor.”
“Oh, but do tell us a story,” Penelope said, clapping her hands.
“Very well, but my tale is a long one, my lady,” the duke said. He drew out a large handkerchief from a pocket and dusted off one of the big tumbled stones that must have at one time made up the abbey’s walls. He laid the square of linen down and gestured. “Please. Take a seat.”
All the ladies found places to sit—save Artemis, who preferred to stand—and the footmen who had trailed the party began serving wine and minuscule cakes pulled from wicker baskets.
“Now then,” Scarborough began, assuming a dramatic pose—feet braced wide apart, one hand comfortably tucked between the buttons of his waistcoat, his other hand gesturing toward the ruins. “Once this was a grand and mighty abbey, erected and inhabited by monks who had taken a vow of silence…”
Artemis paid little attention to Scarborough’s words. She watched the assembled group dispassionately, and then began slowly moving around the outer edge of the guests. She slipped behind Mrs. Jellett, paused a moment, then moved again. Her object was to circle around to where Wakefield stood beside Penelope.
“… and when the maiden woke up, she was served a most wonderful meal by the monks, but of course none of them spoke because they’d all taken their vow of silence…”
Artemis glanced down to maneuver around a crumbling stone with its base obscured by weeds, which was why she didn’t see him until it was too late.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wakefield growled in her ear. He clamped his hand on her upper arm.
Wisely, she kept silent.
He drew her toward where part of the wall still stood. They were at the back of the group and thus few noticed them. Miss Picklewood raised her head, a bit like a guard dog with its hackles high, but Wakefield shot her a rather filthy look.
And then they were out of sight of the others.
But the duke didn’t stop. He hustled her through the ruins and into the stand of trees that edged one side of the abbey. Only when they were sheltered by the cool branches of the great trees, did he stop.
“What”—he turned and seized both her arms—“has gotten into you?”
“He’s dying,” she whispered furiously, trembling within his grasp. “I didn’t receive the letter until almost noon—because Penelope didn’t think it important enough to give it to me earlier. Apollo is lying in that hellhole dying.”
His jaw set as he searched her face. “I can have a carriage readied for you to return to London within the hour. If the roads are—”
She slapped him, quick and hard.
His head turned slightly with the blow, but other than that his only reaction was the narrowing of his eyes.
Her chest was heaving as if she were running. “No! You must go to London. You must get him out. You must save my brother because if you don’t, I swear upon everything I hold holy that I’ll ruin both you and your illustrious name. I’ll—”