Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(34)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“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.

She couldn’t. She had to hold to her purpose.

Penelope tossed her head and laughed, the ribbons on her bonnet fluttering in the wind.

“She’s got them both on a string, hasn’t she?” Phoebe said quietly.

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.”