The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

E lsie had never found herself in a cave before. It wasn’t a location she would ever wish to return to, with very little space to move between the three of them. Thankfully, Lancelot had curled up in the corner furthest from the ledge and was watching the sky with great interest through the mouth of the cave.

As for the new duke, he was watching her with a curious expression, one which she found impossible to read and make head or tail of. Perhaps he thought wrongly that she was attempting to compromise or entrap him. Elsie had heard men with titles often felt that way. She fervently hoped he did not believe her capable of that.

However, she was acutely self-conscious of her own bedraggled state, her ripped dress with the chemise askew now blatantly visible, and its white material wetly clinging to her legs. Protectively, she raised her hands and folded them in front of her. She supposed she could be grateful that the duke—that Kit had moved away to look down into the cove, seeming to consider how trapped they really were.

Edging nearer to him, Elsie asked, “Has the tide slowed at all? ”

“Seems to have done.” He looked grim and cold now he had removed his coat. “As it starts to lower?—”

“What strikes me as most odd is how the cottage is still… well it is not under water.” Elsie had moved to the edge of the cave and was looking out into the cove.

Kit abruptly moved back into the cave. “Come away from the edge.”

Elsie let him go, and continued to stare out at the cottage, lifted out of the waves on its little rock jetty, a safe barrier around the building of a good twenty feet. Perhaps they should have risked swimming towards that, it would have been preferable to climbing up the cliff front.

When she looked back, Kit had lowered himself to the ground, stretching out his long legs and placing his back against the wall. He looked cold and tired, and yet somehow more engaging and approachable than ever before.

With a tentative step nearer, Elsie asked. “Will you tell me why we didn’t just go to the cottage, surely it would have been easier to swim there?”

“There is always a question with you, isn’t there?”

“Perhaps if you could answer one or two of them, I might stop asking them.” Elsie was surprised at the forcefulness of her reply, but to her even greater astonishment Kit sighed and nodded.

“It’s an old wives’ tale, one my mother told me, that the cottage is cursed. That in short it isn’t safe. I didn’t want to risk—either of us trying to venture out to it.”

“Do you always believe superstitions?”

“In this part of this place, it often seems the wisest course of action. It has cost me, denying such things.” Even in the dim interior of the cave, Elsie could see the glimmer of a smile forming around his lips as if Kit understood the irony and perhaps even humour of what he’d just said. It made his dark features brighter, casting an almost appealing look to his demeanour. “You must know the story of Tintagel? ”

“The story of the knights of the round table? Or Arthur and Guinevere? Yes, of course, why do you think I named the dog Lancelot?”

“That’s part of it—but that’s not the story of Tintagel.” There was a sad intensity to Kit’s face as if the mythic legend might somehow have some impact on him personally.

“What’s Tintagel’s real story then?” Elsie asked.

“It’s where Arthur was conceived and born,” he said, looking away from her as he spoke of such delicate things. “But he was only brought into existence by a trick. Merlin bewitched Arthur’s father to look like Igraine’s real husband, so he stole into her bed in the night and forced himself?—”

“I understand,” Elsie said. That part of the story had been skipped over in her readings. It painted Arthur’s father as far more of a villain than most might want to consider.

A wry look of sympathy twisted the duke’s face, and Elsie had to mentally shake her head and tried her best to dismiss the idea that the duke might ever be classed as attractive.

“I think it gives the area an unpleasantly debauched aura. Which certainly fits my family’s reputation,” he continued, “when you look at what my own father is reported to have done in his youth, not to mention all my uncles. Their actions rather place them alongside Arthur’s father.”

“Do you think that all Ashmores are so cursed?” It was not that Elsie believed in curses, but Margot was an Ashmore, and if there was any hint of truth to it, Elsie should know, so she could defend her sister.

“Being related to the Ashmore name is rarely found to be a good thing.”

Taking a step nearer to him, Elsie sank down next to His Grace. “I’m afraid I am quite ignorant of your family’s history.”

Kit—that seemed too intimate to her, though that was his name—gave her a strange look, weighing her up almost, before coming to a decision .

“It is probably nothing more than coincidence and merely bad luck,” he finally said, although there was an edge to his voice that spoke of something he was keeping from her.

Well, Elsie could understand they had, after all, only just met, and their talk had drifted into the wildly inappropriate.

So, Elsie decided against pushing against his obvious discomfort. Perhaps it was best to change the subject. “When I was small, and my little brother was born, I told everyone that he was bad luck. It is probably rather cruel of me to say so, but I was not pleased to no longer be the youngest, and dear William had quite the ugliest nose.” The duke made no reply, so Elsie continued confidingly, “He has now much improved, grown into the feature as my mother would say, but I told my sister, Margot—sorry, Miss Keating as I should call her—that our younger brother was…”

“That your brother was cursed?”

“Yes.”

“Because of his nose?”

Rather shamefacedly, Elsie nodded. “That is what I told her. I was only four at the time.”

To her surprise the duke laughed. There was something warm to the noise, which seemed with the strength of it to reach out and touch her limbs—to heat her body. Then he lent nearer, closing the distance between the two of them so that their shoulders touched. “Gaining a sibling is not always such a gift, especially when one is so small.” He paused, suddenly alert. “God, you’re freezing.”

“I have lost several parts of my gown. Which is presumably not aiding in keeping me snug.” Elsie made a gesture down at her ruined dress and chemise. “All in a good cause of course.”

“If you would not deem it hugely inappropriate on my part, may I…?” He angled his broad chest towards her, offering to embrace her with his body. Her eyes moved down his shirt which was damp and beneath it she could make out the shape of his mu scled chest. “I mean no disrespect towards you but in order for us…”

“To stay warm?” she asked. He was right, she was blisteringly cold, goose pimples streaking up her legs as she spoke, so her words came out with a wobble.

He didn’t wait for her reply but slowly and carefully with far more grace than she’d ever imagined him capable of, enfolded her in his arms. First the right arm closed over her shoulders, and then when she was close, his left hand came around to protectively cup her knees. There was a solid kindness to the gesture, one which a family member might display. At least that was what Elsie told herself. The problem was it did not feel remotely familiar to her—Kit was warmer than she’d expected, more keenly muscled, which she could now feel through the thin and damp layers of their clothes.

The smell of the salt was present, clinging to his curling hair, yet there was something else, an almost mint-like flavour that clung to him. It unnerved her, seeming like a temptation emanating from a man.

Being this much closer to him, she could study his features, which were far less harsh and intimidating up close. The jut of his nose seemed softer today, better suited to him, the curve of his eyebrows, which she had dismissed as dark and heavy were actually far more winged than she’d given him credit for, and the shape of his lips, which she had originally thought too thin, held a sensuality which made her wish to gaze up at the bow. Now she could see the paleness of his eyes, originally so unnerving, were far more beautiful than she would ever imagine a man could possess. When in her shock she shuddered at this bizarre thought, his arms tightened, bringing her flush against him, and Elsie realised that even if he wished to hide it, he was holding her carefully with compassion, no man could be completely unfeeling or cynical she told herself and behave in such a manner.

Desperate after a few minutes to break the hold and what felt like thickening tension, Elsie shifted slightly. “Can you smell the scent of mint?”

For a moment Kit looked down at her in confusion, and then it cleared, and he said, “Ah yes, I happened to pass some on my way home.” He lifted his hand and pointed over to his drying jacket. “I filled my pockets with leaves.”

“Why?”

He leant back against the wall of the cave, and replied with a marked indifference that hinted all too clearly that this meant something dear, “It is my sister’s favourite flavour, and I thought if it was brewed…”

“I would have done the same for my mother.” Elsie judged it better not to linger over the mention of his sister thinking it best to focus on the gesture than the recipient. Lady Flora was a sensitive topic, and Elsie in her cold damp clothes, wretched and isolated in a cave, did not feel herself able to do the matter justice. Besides, she had no desire to further burn any bridges with the man who was currently keeping her so snug.

“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier,” Kit said, and Elsie wondered if he meant during the cove being flooded, or if it was in reference to her first night in the manor house.

“If you did so, I would not own up to the fact.” Elsie gave him a cheerful grin both as a means of reassurance to each of them. “I pride myself on not being intimidated, unless it cannot be helped.”

“Did the tides—” he started to say, and Elsie was somewhat saddened to realise he had not been referring to his initial treatment of her on her arrival. “Does the natural world have an effect on you?”

“If the storm could not, then no, I will not be so frightened by the weather. I know a great many women claim to be terrified of a storm, but I would not succumb to such weakness.” She tried her best to sound brave, and to the best of her knowledge, she was telling the truth. Of course, there were things that frightened her, but not everything had to be disclosed, despite their close proximity, which might imply some intimacy.

“Would you save any fear for certain acquaintances?” If she knew him better, Elsie wondered if he was attempting to tease her.

“Only certain people,” Elsie replied without thinking and saw an eyebrow twitch on Kit’s face, he looked like he wanted to laugh. An urge to tell him the truth about Margot, and how frightened she had been when she’d seen the dying duke on the carpet, blood surrounding him, but she swallowed it down, scared to reveal such a secret and the consequences of sharing something so personal to her sister. It could be argued it was not hers to reveal. Silence stretched as Kit waited patiently for her to tell him what was so terrifying. “My grandmother,” she finally said.

He pulled back to look down at her, quizzical surprise dancing over his face, before he laughed. “Your grandmother?”

Earnestly Elsie nodded, focusing on the more humorous elements of her grandmother. If any of it could be said to be amusing. Something that would lighten the tension that simmered awkwardly between their huddled bodies. But a story that would not hint at the family secrets Elsie wished to keep buried.

“She is very strict about society,” Elsie said. “Very proper and was not the easiest when my sister and I made our debuts into Scottish society.” It was an overview, a brief skirting of the truth. Grandmother Keating had been hideously controlling five years ago, and each season upon season she had gotten worse until Elsie loathed their annual trip to Edinburgh. It was clearer to her now why her grandmother had been so disapproving—the woman had always suspected that Margot was not actually her granddaughter. Not that it had meant she had been kind to Elsie, especially after the incident with Graves.

“I never knew my grandparents,” Kit said. “Never met a single one of them. I suppose that is not uncommon.” As she tried her best to listen to his words, she realised there was something melodic about his voice, a softness she had not appreciated before. A studied slowness that did not imply a simplicity in his mind but more that he wanted to consider his turn of phrase with consideration. Why that should be so appealing, and endear her with the desire to curl up closer, was strange.

Elsie became increasingly aware of how close his head was to grazing the top of hers, nestled as they were together, if he leant down another inch, their hair would be touching. Suddenly she desperately wished he would, it wasn’t enough to merely have his hand resting lightly on her knee and the other around her shoulders, she wanted more contact. Wanted to lose herself in his touch. “My father was the last son of his parents, and my mother was orphaned young.” Kit sighed. “I suppose if they would have been like your grandmother it is just as well, I didn’t have that particular experience.”

“If I ever have children, it pleases me to think my father and mother will be most excellent in the role of grandparents,” Elsie said without really thinking. After all, she knew she would be highly unlikely to marry. Besides which, she should never discuss such matters with a gentleman—the idea of children, implied or at least alluded to, thus hinted at the begetting of them, and that a lady should never admit to knowing a thing about. It just seemed perhaps because they were intertwined together, that the formality of society existed far away from them. Which of course was ridiculous because, provided they survived this day, all the rules would immediately reinsert themselves all too quickly as soon as they left this cave.

Before Elsie could think of a suitable way of moving the topic of conversation on, little Lancelot came snuffling over to them, sinking down next to her feet with a whimper.

“You named the dog Lancelot?” Kit asked.

“That’s right.” Elsie ruffled the pup’s head, and the slight whine ceased. “I already had an Arthur in my life. ”

“Oh,” he said. There seemed to be depth to his oh , but she could not pinpoint quite why.

“My father is called Arthur. He is a vicar. I thought the dog could aspire to the great knight,” Elsie joked. It was easier to ignore the magnetic pull of the man beside her if she focused on the puppy.

“I believe, although I am not an expert on dogs,” Kit said, “that Lancelot is a spaniel.”

“I would have rescued him regardless.”

“I know.” Kit’s voice dropped, and it was then that their hands met as they stroked Lancelot. She dared a glance at him, and to her surprise their eyes met and held. There was an awareness there, a bright spark, which cartwheeled and cascaded through Elsie’s chest, with a growing suspicion that Kit wanted to kiss her. When his unnerving perceptive gaze dropped to her mouth, Elsie felt herself rewarded with the knowledge she had been right—he did.

But that was not all. She wondered if she wanted him too—to lean down in this quiet, cool cave and to press his lips against her. What it would feel like to kiss a relative stranger. Oh, she had known men who’d wanted to kiss or even go a step further, but she had never truly questioned whether she wanted to kiss them. Her motivation had been curiosity, at least for kisses.

Now she felt certain she did.

I wish to kiss him, even if he is a stranger, I want to know what his mouth would feel like pressed to mine. What it would be like to part my lips and have our tongues touch …

Elsie knew that despite the chill in the air surrounding and engulfing them, her cheeks were colouring with the heated idea. Slipping its trickster way beneath her senses and heating her blood, blooming in her rib cage, stomach, hips and finding its way to twist deep within her… It occurred to her that this sensation had to be desire. How like the wanton her grandmother always warned her about, how close she was to …

How bloody inconvenient .

Cautiously she looked up. Had Kit moved closer, had he been able to read or know what she was feeling? A previous summer had left a handful of freckles on his high cheekbones, which gave him a slightly boyish air at odds with his former formality.

His hand tightened, their fingers still touching on top of Lancelot’s head. Elsie wondered if she should close her eyes, unbidden her tongue darted out to wet her lips. There was a tightening of Kit’s jawline and Elsie braced herself.

Lancelot shifted, and Elsie saw the moment that Kit remembered himself, his fingers flexed and suddenly he was on his feet.

“I should check…” He gestured towards the cove and presumably the water. He stood, moved away, and started to rub a hand over his chest as if in great discomfort. Clearly, he had felt none of the same pull as she had.

Unwillingly Elsie nodded, surprised at how disappointed she was that he had stepped away.