The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

I t was just as well that distraction came when it did. He had been tempted, tempted beyond belief to close the distance that separated them, and taste the sweetest mouth he could ever remember seeing.

Where had such an odd and inappropriate thought sprung from? It had to be a form of madness, was the only logic that Kit could ascribe to it. But if he did so, he could hardly call himself a gentleman—they were trapped, she had no option of leaving, and all around them was danger. He would be the worst sort of man imaginable.

So, he had moved as quickly as he could, his ribcage plaguing him. Now he stared down at the waters far below. The tides did seem to be calming, but there was no sign that they were retreating. It could be hours before they did, and in this narrow, damp cave with the partially dressed Miss Keating—no, Elsie, that was what she asked him to call her.

With another check of the view below, Kit stepped back away from the edge. If he was going to resist giving into the strangely beguiling or bedraggled allure of Elsie, he was going to have to find something to fill up the space that burnt between them .

Moving back to sink down beside her, Kit positioned his legs carefully, out in front of him, providing what he considered a barrier. Adding to this, he folded his arms one on top of another, further adding a layer of a shield. It was important she did not receive the wrong impression about him, as much for his own sanity as anything else.

When he finally looked at Elsie, he was a little disappointed to see she was paying him no heed, but all her focus was on her little spaniel, who cuddled close to her. Well, she could be warmed by Lancelot. The most optimistically named dog that Kit had ever met.

“I offer my apologies if there was a reason…” Elsie finally glanced up, her brown eyes bright in the cave. “If I made anything awkward, I am sure it is due to my country ways.”

Unable to countenance that he wouldn’t be classed in the same way by the beau monde that he’d met, Kit laughed. Amusement welcomed in such a grimy little cave. By society’s standards, he was classed a lofty duke now, supposedly the head of one of England’s ancient and noble families, but gaining the title had never truly occurred to Kit as a possibility, certainly not one he wanted or pursued. But from the way Elsie was regarding him, suddenly he wanted to explain to this young woman the truth. Or at least part of it—he doubted he could fully explain all of it, after all he had already told her about the curse and that hadn’t been believed.

“Since we’ve already moved past the more obvious revelations, there is something I can tell you that might be worthwhile knowing about my family.”

“Beyond what you have already shared?”

“Yes.” There was a disease within him, and yet, he wanted to tell her. It was as if there was a separation built in—because of the distinct possibility of death and the fact he felt attracted to her—an instinct within him that, if he told her, some of these burdens both new and old would be dispelled. Hell, even if he did well, neither of them might survive the climb down, and if they did, they might die in the uneven waters below. “My family—the Ashmores are said to be blighted, which I alluded to earlier. But it was why my father moved us away from London, away from it all to protect my mother and any children they might have. He did not want any of us associated with his brothers. Well, it did not work.” He turned back to look down at her. There was no judgement on her features, no she was watching him intently. “I’m sure it is quite nonsensical to you hearing such things.”

Elsie’s face twisted, at once amusing and reflective but also not entirely clear what she was thinking. As Kit watched her, he saw she was dwelling on his words, forming her thoughts—it was fascinating to watch as she considered the matter and then finally answered, “If you believe it to be true, if what you have witnessed has led to this conclusion, then who am I to pass judgement?”

For a moment, Kit wished she would pass her sentence, there would be a relief in hearing her clear-headed rationale on it. Or perhaps it was because she was a vicar’s daughter there was a religious benediction to her words, a salvation in hearing her view. To have it settled by her decision, and then he could stop carrying his father’s fears with him and around him.

“From what I have seen of your uncle, the brief time I knew him…” Elsie paused, her eyes looking down at the cave, her perfect rosebud mouth almost pouting, then she lifted her head as if she wanted to reassure him. “I believe that could well be an ill omen on you and your family. Unless we can find a more natural cause of it…”

“You do not even know half of what has occurred.”

“Sometimes I think it does not matter what the individual has seen or knows but what that person considers to be true. It is gospel to them. I suppose that would not hold up to the great scientists of the day.” Elsie smiled at him in what Kit took to be a warm encouraging manner. “You see my mother always said my father was her knight in shining armour—that he saved her. Saved her life. It might not be true or at least not entirely, but if it pleases her, then what is the harm? The only difference I suppose is that this curse of yours is not a pleasing bedtime tale. But more of a nightmare.”

And to which there is no cure, Kit thought rather morosely. Unable to resist the pull of her kind belief, he lifted up his jacket and handed it to Elsie to wrap around herself.

“For hundreds of years, I don’t know when it began, but the Ashmores were supposed to possess a great fortune.” Unable to stop himself, Kit resumed his seat next to her. His jacket was now draped over her shoulders, and although not entirely dry at least would provide another layer for her. If he focused on the grisly or sordid aspects of his ancestors’ past, perhaps this would be a sufficient distraction to stop his wayward thoughts from the more physically appealing aspects of Elsie Keating. He was a grown man of thirty, this should be doable—they were facing potential death surely, he could be sensible enough to make this topic his key focus. “Of course, no one has seen this treasure. Or if they have, it has not been shared widely with the family. You saw the state of the manor. If properties are not entailed, they have been sold off in order to keep the estate afloat.”

“You will have to marry a great heiress if the family fortune cannot be found.” There was a teasing note to Elsie’s comment, but when he glanced at her, she had huddled close to him and into the folds of his jacket which dwarfed her.

“I think that is the trick at least a few of my family members have tried, so I would imagine that the dukedom is a rather sordid prize at this point in time. Or the beau monde would be wise to my intentions.”

“A dukedom is still a dukedom regardless of its past.”

She was being too laissez-faire for his tastes. “You don’t know what they’ve done, seducing and disregarding women as if they were nothing more than…” He heaved out a sigh. “And that was just the last generation, the earlier lords were said to?— ”

Suddenly Elsie’s hand shot out, and she took his gesturing hand in a soothing manner, her fingers sliding through his. “Just because our family is not what we would have wished, does not mean we are doomed or must repeat their mistakes. Your father sounds as if he were far more than his errors in judgement.”

“Even if the treasure could be found, which I suppose it must be eventually, I’m not sure I would even want it.” That was the secret he had been holding on to. The one he could not carry forward into whatever the next few hours held—if they were to survive them—it needed to be aired out and acknowledged. He had not even been able to admit this to his father, and it hurt him that this was what the man had spoken as he lay dying on the ground rather than talking about Kit, his sister, or their mother. No, his father had just spoken of the cursed family fortune, how his brothers wanted some poxy diamonds. “I do not wish to spend my life in pursuit or in the need for money. That it would come to define me. I would wish for something greater.” As it had for his father despite him running away to avoid it.

“Do you not think enough to mitigate that possibility?” Her voice was soft, which Kit was beginning to learn hid the strength of will behind her sentiments.

“For some.” Kit could not shake the memory of his father on the ground, lying there, bleeding from his mouth, and he wanted to talk of it yet also run a mile from the memory. “Maybe one has to be very courageous to manage it.”

“I’m not sure if I could be classed as that.” Elsie leant in closer, her head coming to rest against Kit’s shoulder, it was moving to feel her there. rather like she was pleased for his presence. “But when you meet my sister Margot, you will see what a formidable woman she is. I don’t think I know a stronger one. I think I can see a few notes of similarity between the two of you—if only in your stubbornness.”

“Me stubborn, madam?”

She laughed, it was a chilly one, roughed by the cave but unmistakably a sound of mirth. “Indeed sir, a very stubborn streak.” She gave a shudder, and Kit gave in, lowering his legs to pull her flat against his chest. It was amazing he thought as she snuggled up against him, how neatly she fitted against his chest. A fool would believe it was as if she were designed to be nestled in his arms—her sharp little chin, cushioned by his muscles, her head stilled against his heart, their hips aligned—a fool as he said, or a romantic. And Kit liked to think he was neither of those things.

“When we survive this, when we leave here, you will meet her,” Elsie said. The words were a little muffled although there was a determination to the statement, and Kit gave a rueful smile which she could not see. It was practically enough for him to believe Elsie she sounded so sure. “You can tell me if you want to, how they died.”

No one had ever said that to him, Kit realised. The magistrate had needed him to confirm the facts of the matter. Flora had needed him to carry her away from the site. The manor required that he step into his father’s shoes but not a soul had offered to hear what had actually happened. No, the estate and the general vicinity preferred to listen to the rumours. Whereas here a veritable stranger, admittedly one nestled in his arms, was offering to hear and he could almost share the burden of the experience.

“I would not wish to distress you.”

“I have survived a storm. A night in your manor house. And now, hopefully, a near drowning in a cove.” Elsie lifted her head, and her warm brown eyes looked up into his, and suddenly Kit knew he had to tell her. He had to admit the guilt, the horror, and the sadness that had trailed him for the last few months because admitting it in this damp little cave would feel as if it was, at least in part, lifted from his shoulders. “I don’t think a story will shake me too greatly.”

“It’s my fault they died.” The words slipped out of his mouth, and Kit let them drop easily enough. “It was late November. We had been invited to the nearest town—there was a party. I don’t suppose my silly reasoning for wishing to go matters now.” The truth was he was resentful of being cooped up in Cornwall, trapped and desperately wanting a way of lifting boredom. It felt so petty and trivial now he thought about it. “We set off. Flora was poorly, but I insisted. The roads were bad.” As he spoke, he found his gaze drifted to Elsie’s face, watching her closely for a reaction, a telltale sign of her distaste or disgust. “It was supposed to be a grand party, all the local beauties, champagne… and I was desperate to be out of the manor.” Kit looked back on his actions—ones of a demanding child, harrying his parents and sister into the carriage. “But it was a longer trip, so we needed the older carriage, and it hadn’t been checked. The wheels went from beneath the old contraption miles from anywhere—I had been riding, but even at a distance I could hear my sister screaming. It was so dark; all the carriage lights were out. By the time I got there, my mother had been thrown clear and was dead. But my father…” Kit trailed off, his father’s glassy eyes seeking out his, his bloodied lips moving, muttering about that curse. “It took me too long to find him, and when I did, it was too late.”

“That doesn’t sound as if it was your fault.” As she said this, her rescued Lancelot came and curled up next to them. The dog’s warmth heated them slightly, and the animal let out a comical little sigh.

Kit grimaced but knew he needed to admit it all. “You see, it was my fault. Didn’t you say you would believe me when I spoke.”

“But I thought it was a curse, so then it can’t be your fault. It would be beyond your control, surely?”

There was a sympathetic tilt to her face, but Kit could tell that Elsie was pleased with her logical reasoning. He allowed her theory to sit with him—perhaps that was what his father had been trying to tell him, as a way of lessening Kit’s guilt.

“Horrible things happen every day,” Elsie continued, pulling Kit out of his reverie. “The reason my parents met was because of a carriage crash, no one was at fault, it was an accident, a pure coincidence I suppose you might say, but sadly the driver died. However, if it hadn’t occurred, well they would never have met, and neither my brother nor I…” she said. “I don’t wish to say there was a reason for your parents’ deaths, but I am certain that neither of them blamed you.”

Whether it was true or not, it was still kind of her to say it, but it went beyond the simply considerate. There was a sincerity to her words, and when she lent in closer, her head came to rest against his chest—she trusted him enough to be close, to be held by him.

Minutes eased by, and Kit enjoyed the solace of the silence, the comfort of being close to someone who knew the truth. Her knowing of his confession was a small burden being eased from his shoulders.

“I suppose that is how you injured yourself?” her question was a quiet one as if she too did not want to spoil the truce.

“That is correct…” Kit had not really dwelt on that side of things, having to break into the smashed carriage, pulling out his sister and then looking for the others. Lifting Flora free had not been burdensome, but getting her out when she was unconscious hadn’t been straightforward, but part of the broken bits of wood had stabbed his arm as he’d freed his sister. He had ignored it. Pretending it wasn’t painful for hours, working to find everyone since the driver was of no use, injured with a bad concussion, and Flora was dead to the world. In the darkness with no nearby buildings, Kit had worked through the blackness searching for his parents, each second underlining the fact that he was unlikely to locate them alive. Days later, the doctors had checked him, told him to rest, and Kit had tried, but there was a great deal to do around the manor, regardless of the pain he felt. It was an earned pain. It was what he deserved.

Elsie’s fingers reached for his and they linked their hands together, holding his injured wrist in her grasp. She didn’t add anything else, and when he heard her breath start to slow and become steady, he realised she had fallen asleep in his arms.

When Kit looked down at Lancelot, the dog was watching him with a tilted head, and Kit felt a wave of responsibility wash over him. It was not the same as it had been with his parents or even Flora, this time was different. Lancelot lowered his head, and Kit closed his eyes, not allowing himself to dwell on why it might be different.