The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

E lsie watched Kit as he circled the axe and the gap in the floor, sections of the ballroom visible. He hadn’t spoken in several minutes his face drawn in severe lines as he gazed down at his surroundings with calculation.

If she could guess, she would assume he was waiting for an answer from God. Or hoping for an obvious sign of guilt that would point to someone he knew. Yet he still said nothing. To Elsie, there was no obvious answer other than deliberate sabotage and who might be motivated was beyond her. Never had she felt like more of an outsider, none of the servants had been remotely friendly to her so how was she supposed to guess at those responsible.She wished she could tell what Kit was thinking as it was so hard to tell. His face was inscrutable, even after having been so intimate with him. It was strange to feel as if they were linked and connected physically and yet Ashmore did not trust her enough to confess his innermost thoughts.

Having shared such an act together, their mutual passion overwhelmed them. She saw now how unfulfilling and lacklustre her one previous lover had been. Captain Oliver Graves. He was insignificant compared to what she felt for Ashmore. He’d had freckles and bright brown eyes, which had reminded her of her morning chocolate, but a great deal of the pain his rejection caused her seemed unimportant now.

How had she thought that was love?

She had believed she wished to marry Graves… well it proved how silly she had been. About as silly as she had been to trust Graves to honour his promise to wed after. She had been a fool, and with the years that had passed since she’d been with him, and since his death on campaign, Elsie had accepted that her stupidity would be punished by no one ever offering for her. She would be denied a marriage.

A loving union which her heart had always sought. Her romanticism had to be put aside, but it did not seem her lusts could be… For a moment, she recalled how her Grandmother Keating had acted on the discovery of her physical relationship with Graves. Her grandmother going far enough to intercept the captain’s letter to discover what had occurred between the two of them. The torrent of insults the older woman, her own relative, had directed her way still burnt through her. It had been a revelation that Grandmother Keating knew Margot was not her blood relation, given what the old woman had said about Elsie’s mother.

Ashmore’s dismissal hadn’t stung in the same way as her grandmother’s words had. No, he seemed to believe the opposite of Elsie, and yet he, just like her grandmother, would never see her in the marrying light.

Perhaps, Elsie thought, her heart sinking that her grandmother had been right, that she was little more than a light-skirt, who could so easily give out her favours, without ever risking her heart.

And yet…

“You would have me question the servants?” Ashmore finally looked up, fixing her with a perceptively dark glance. His glance sought her out, awaiting her answer whilst she had been thinking about her past .

For a moment, Elsie considered saying yes. They could work their way through the servants, narrowing down the potential suspects. But then of course, they would have to think about the guests too. Could someone have been invited and snuck unseen upstairs to wreck such havoc on the ball? And what would remain would be the question of why. “Surely it would be better for us to just leave?”

“To the safety of London? Where my predecessor was murdered in cold blood? Has your sister had any luck finding the culprit?”

The memory of the older duke, her sister’s father, lying sprawled on the floor before her, caused tears to spring to her eyes. All this death, this destruction hurt… biting at her sensitive heart and the idea that someone could also target Margot. Or Kit. But Margot hadn’t written, which must mean she’d had no luck finding the man responsible.

“Don’t cry,” Ashmore ordered. His tone was abrupt and for a second Elsie wished to stomp away from him. To act as scared as she felt. Being ordered not to cry, made Elsie want to as a mere act of childish defiance, how dare he order her around? Sometimes the emotions Ashmore stirred in her pulled her in two directions—to scream and run away from him and to step closer and kiss his stubborn face.

“I would have us leave,” Elsie repeated herself. She didn’t say they should go to London. But getting out of this manor house seemed the wisest course of action. Who cared what the rationale was for the attacks on him, it was better just to escape and perhaps work out who the plotter was at a later date. If they could not make sense of the mystery, then he could employ someone who might be able to—as a prominent member of the nobility he’d have enough clout to hire as many Bow Street runners as he wished. “I haven’t heard from my sister. She has not written at all while I have been here.”

“If she had found the murderer, she would have written to inform us,” he said, “which means she has not, or someone has gotten to her.”

That thought had never occurred to Elsie and fear swelled in her stomach, the image of Margot felled in the same position as the dead duke, made tears gather in her eyes. Surely it could not be the case. Her sister was too bright, too good…

“No,” Elsie said almost to herself at the picture of Margot bleeding. Her mind rushed for answers. Surely if that had happened, then there would be something in the papers? A notice from her parents? She swallowed and forced herself to be sensible. If something terrible had happened, then Mrs. Bowley, her sister’s companion, would have written to tell her. Clinging to that idea, Elsie straightened.

Abruptly Ashmore put his arm out towards her. “Let us leave this room. No good can be done this late at night. Or rather this early in the morning.”

She took his arm, her fingers sinking into the material of his ruined shirt. “Will we leave in the morning?”

When he looked away from her, Elsie already knew the answer. Ashmore had no intention of ever leaving this bloody manor. She dug her feet into the floor, and he turned back to her, concern marking his face mingled with a touch of frustration. “What is the matter?”

“You won’t leave here, will you?”

“This is my home,” he said.Even in the darkness, Elsie knew he felt no fondness for the place, and she did not blame him in the slightest, when she finally was able to leave Tintagel, she would never wish to return. It was a haunted place, rich with the memories of what had been lost, which seemed real enough to linger on with the living.

“So, you will force yourself to stay here and welcome an early death?”

“If it is my fate, it is what I deserve.” He sounded fatalist and dropped his arm walking to the door. In annoyance Elsie followed after him, her steps quick to catch up with him.She desperately wanted to call him by his name, to whisper Kit , and have him respond, for the lover to return to the fore, rather than the hard, sharp noble before her.

“No,” she said. Surely, there was something to make him see sense.

“I’m afraid that isn’t enough. Simply saying no, and it won’t happen, can’t change the facts of the matter.”

“If you don’t fight, then you aren’t the man I thought you were.” Anger flooded her voice. He wasn’t being a coward, nor was it something else at play and it made Elsie furious. How could Kit reveal himself so intimately and yet not tell her what thoughts were forming in his mind?

“I am trying my best to protect my sister and even yourself.” Ashmore grabbed her, moving Elsie up against the wall bending so their eyes were on a level. “You can both leave this house for your safety. It is the best and wisest course of action.” There was a finality to his words which brooked no argument, but to Elsie, who considered leaving him here to be tantamount to a death sentence, it was an absurd notion.

“But you would stay, knowing someone wants you dead?” It was hard to keep her face straight when she asked him this.

“Of course,” he snapped back, before sighing and regaining a semblance of calm. “I will draw their attention from you both. Can you not see my logic there? It is the curse my father feared made manifest. If it is meant to be my turn, so be it.”

The fury that had bubbled through her suddenly shrunk, and Elsie wanted to cry. He was going to sacrifice himself. That was his master plan, and since Flora could not inherit, he presumably thought it would stop all this.

What about me? She wanted to ask. Don’t you care about me? What will I do without you? I have dreamt since you rescued me on that fateful night of being in your arms, and now she had tasted it, he told her it could never happen again .

She searched Ashmore’s face, seeking out some touch of softened or affection she felt but there was only the expected harshness. Stiffening her spine, Elsie nodded, pulling herself away from him.

“Very well, Your Grace.” She marched the remaining steps to her bedroom, snatched open the door and hurried inside.

It felt bittersweet to be away from his infuriating presence. How could one man stir up such feelings? Elsie leaned back against the doorframe and let out an uneven breath. In annoyance, she realised she was waiting for him to knock, to apologise, to try to talk to her. Instead, she heard the soft steady beats of his footfalls as he moved away, presumably back to his own chamber.

“Hush,” she whispered to Lancelot, who had raised his little head at her entrance. Watching her from his position in the softest armchair. She gave him a wan smile.

Returning to stare up at the dark ceiling, Elsie wished he would return and prayed that he wouldn’t. It unnerved her that she had no idea what to make of him as a man, as a survivor, or as a duke. He didn’t want to wed her, that was not a surprise… she wrapped her arms protectively around herself, shielding her frame from any criticism, yet he desired her. Presumably he thought he was protecting her, but surely, she was vulnerable as an unwed woman too, given they had been intimate.

With a heavy sigh, she concluded—she was going to have to tell Kit everything about her sister. The whole truth of the matter—of Margot’s bastardy, of his uncle’s treatment of their mother, and that Margot and Kit were cousins. With a rush of guilt, which pulled her in two ways, Elsie knew she should have told him sooner and yet she felt responsible since Margot wished her to wait. Would it look grasping? Greedy? They needed his blessing for Margot to receive her annuity from the dead duke.

Now she knew him better… even at the thought, Elsie gave a sad little laugh. She could claim to know elements of Kit, but he was a master at keeping her at a distance.

Undoubtedly, Elsie should compile the reasons why Margot hadn’t written to her. Despite the numerous letters that Elsie had sent asking, nay pleading for advice. It wasn’t like her sister. Or perhaps she should draw up a list of the servants who might have a vendetta, but the truth was they’d kept their distance from Elsie the entire time she’d be in the manor. The alternative—that it was a member of the local gentry—well, that was no help, she certainly couldn’t remember any of their names.

Sinking down on the bed instead, Elsie dwelt on the one thing she had told herself not to, the sudden, soul-wrenching act Kit and she had enjoyed. It had been necessary, she told herself. An act of release after such a long build up. She remembered the taste of smoke about him, the brush of his stubbled cheeks on hers, the rush of energy she’d felt as he’d scrambled with her clothes. Then how claimed and owned she’d felt when he’d taken her in an entirely alternative position from anything she’d done before… There were things she wanted to try, new and different, or even basic and boring… because Elsie knew they wouldn’t be with Kit.

I’ll leave. I’ll go take him up on his offer, his order as she should put it, on getting the hell out of here. I can take his offer of employment and leave with Lady Flora. She had tried her best for all concerned and would have received a handsome income for her role as a companion, and that would support both her sister and her going forward.

So, with this plan before her, Elsie dwelt on it as she gazed up at the canopy of the bed high above her. But it meant leaving him, the bloody stubborn, self-sacrificing man. It meant leaving the mystery as that, an unknown, unsolvable thing, that she would forever be left to wonder at. It would mean she would never again feel the touch of his hands on her skin or the taste of his rough kiss, nor the cry as he lost himself in her. She would be abandoning him as so many had done before, and it was this notion that made Elsie sit up abruptly in the middle of the bed, a giggle escaping her lips.

“Damn and blast,” she swore, the realisation growing as she sat there. A weighty and heartfelt swear word she shouldn’t have known, but it seemed the only suitable thing to utter in a time like this when she had done the most foolish of things. “I love him.”

It made sense. Love. Fitting it together—all her actions, all her awareness of him. The daft thing was this feeling was nothing like what Elsie had previously known of love. Not a bit like the heady sweetness and then disappointment with Captain Graves. Nor like the idle imaginings she’d indulged in as a girl at Lady Flora’s age—all of those had been delicate and dainty with no hard edges. So much with Kit was difficult. Nothing about him was easy, and yet even thinking this, made Elsie want to defend him against herself. He was hers to protect because she loved him.

Why couldn’t she have fallen for someone where it was easy?

Grabbing up the blanket, she pulled it over her head and curled up, still in her evening gown.

Because you tried that, and you were bored.

Whilst Graves had behaved badly at first, refusing to marry her, the truth was once their affair was discovered, Elsie was rather relieved that he had said no. She realised she could not marry the captain. That was the main reason why her grandmother had been so angry with her, banishing her back to her parents’ home.

Her own answer was that she had found all other men to be dull, quiet, and quaint in comparison to Kit. She loved Kit because he challenged her, because he thrilled her, and because there was so much to him that she was yet to discover, she would never be bored. And of course there were the qualities she valued—his bravery, his kindness to his sister, his reluctant sweetness to Lancelot when he thought no one would notice…

As she sought a slither of comfort from that notion, and ignored for the time being the fact he certainly did not love her, Elsie curled farther into the bedding, trying her best to feel sleepy.

Just as the heaviness she associated with sleep, claimed her legs, there came an ear-splitting scream. It echoed through the room, blending a femininity and fear that had Elsie’s hair on the back of her neck standing up whilst she threw herself from the bed, grabbing the bed pan, and running to the door.

Lancelot barked, his small spaniel head at an angle. He scurried out of the chair and ran alongside her as Elsie ran down the hallway towards the continuing sound of the scream. As she neared the noise, the scream broke and then restarted, and now Elsie could hear other sounds. A male voice telling whoever it was to be quiet for heaven’s sake.

“I warn you I’m armed,” Elsie called out. It had not escaped her notice that the room which she had come level with was Lady Flora’s. It struck her suddenly that Lancelot should have been in there, and how strange it was that he wasn’t in his mistress’s chamber. The idea should have occurred to her sooner, but she was far too busy dwelling on Kit.

All sound ceased, and Elsie wished suddenly she had kept her mouth shut. She reached for the handle with trepidation, only for another set of fingers to alight over hers.

Looking up she saw Ashmore standing there. He was dressed in merely his shirt, his hair wet on his head. His magnificently muscled forearms were visible because the shirt was rolled up. In his free hand Elsie saw he was carrying a pistol. His eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, and Elsie eased back, allowing Kit to push open the door and enter his sister’s bedroom first. Lancelot, yapping wildly, hurried forward too, and Elsie heard a muttered curse from a masculine voice on the other side of the door.

“Flora…” Kit stepped forward and into the chamber, followed on his heels by Elsie, who braced herself for what awaited them on the other side.