Romancing the Duke

“If you want six women, none of them will be me.” She struggled to disentangle herself and sit up.

He pulled her back down. “What if I just want you? Six times.”

“Six times in one night? Impossible.”

“That sounded like a challenge.” His hand slid to cup her breast. “I accept.”

“Ransom . . .” Her words trailed off into a sigh as he licked along the lacy edge of her bodice. “Ransom, we can’t. Not now. There’s too much to be done.”

“You’ve done so much already.” He shushed her, nudging her legs apart so he could reach between them. “You’ve been working so hard, Izzy. This room is proof of it. Just relax for a moment. Let me give you something in return.”

It worried her that he couldn’t seem to accept the smallest kindness—not even a sliced pear—without thinking he needed to repay her somehow. If not with wages, with pleasure.

Not that she minded the pleasure, of course. Izzy had scarcely slept in days. The soft, springy mattress cushioning their weight was so inviting, and his hard, wanting body atop hers felt so right. She’d missed him so much.

Still . . .

As he kissed her ear, she sighed and smiled. “Why can’t you be cooperative, ever?”

He slid a hand under her skirt. “Where would the joy be in that?”

Joy.

The word surprised her.

Of all the words he could have used in that sentence. Where would the sport be in that? he could have said. Or, Where would the fun be in that?

But he hadn’t spoken of “sport” or “fun.” He’d spoken of joy. Was that truly what he felt with her?

She hoped so. She couldn’t deny it any longer. She wanted him to feel at home here. Here, in this castle—and here, with her.

If they managed to pull through this . . . inspection, of sorts . . . he wouldn’t need to hide and brood in Gostley Castle anymore.

But might he possibly want to stay?

She touched his face, running her fingers over his cheek and reaching to stroke his hair. This impossible, flawed, wounded man who’d brought her in from the rain. Who’d eased her trembling in the dark. Who’d made her feel beautiful and cherished in his embrace.

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?”

Ransom 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

Gather 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.”