A Duke Never Yields (17 page)

“Yes, of course. I . . .” She swallowed and pushed back a lock of her hair, which had fallen from its pins to curl below her ear. Her fingers smelled ever so faintly of bergamot from the contact with Wallingford’s neck. She nearly swooned. “What was I saying?”

“We were going to visit the library, Miss Harewood, to arouse my brother from his academic stupor.”

“Yes, of course. Though I rather think he won’t be pleased to be disturbed, now that I reflect on it. In fact, he’s sure to be quite cross. I know
I
should be, if somebody interrupted me while I was reading something I particularly liked. It’s like a slap to the face. I’m certain that’s why he locked the door in the first place.”

“No more certain than I am.” Again, the dripping weight of sarcasm. “Come along, then, Miss Harewood. Better to face trouble straight on, don’t you think, rather than delaying the inevitable? Particularly for someone of your
straightforward
nature?”

“Oh, quite,” she said. Her back seemed to have settled helplessly against the wall. “All part of being straightforward. Let me just . . . pin up this silly hair of mine, which has got quite loose . . .”

Wallingford sighed, straightened, and turned around the corner in a single long stride.

“Wait!” she called, scrambling upward, forgetting to limp.

“Well, well.” Wallingford’s voice rumbled to her ears.

Oh, God.

Abigail whipped around the corner. The library doors stood open, moonlight spilling faintly from the shadows. Wallingford towered before them, hands on the door handles, wool-covered arms magnificently outstretched.

He turned his head to her, and his expression wasn’t dark and thunderous, as she’d feared, but rather admiring. Almost . . .
amused
.

“It appears we were both wrong, Miss Harewood,” he said. “The library is quite empty.”

NINE

W
hen the Duke of Wallingford had entered the sacred gates of Eton College at the age of thirteen, he had noticed Phineas Burke at once. A difficult chap to ignore, Burke, with his great height and his astonishing head of red gold hair ablaze in the September sun; he had been clutching a satchel under his sticklike arms, and was flanked on one side by a black-clad servant carrying a large leather-buckled chest, and by a woman of eye-watering beauty on the other. Wallingford had poked his companion in the ribs and said, in the offhand way of thirteen-year-old boys discussing something vitally important, “Who the devil’s the ginger?”

The other boy—heir to the Earl of Tamdown—had followed his nod and laughed. “Why, don’t you know, old boy? That’s your own bloody uncle.”

Wallingford had blackened his friend’s jaw, of course, as was only proper in affairs of libelous insult, but when he’d gone out for a walk early the next morning, he had been astonished to encounter his grandfather, the august Duke of Olympia, standing on the Thames footbridge, under the very shadow of Windsor Castle, engaged with the lanky ginger-haired newcomer in what appeared to be a discussion of an intimate fatherly nature.

The sort of discussion in which Wallingford’s own father had never once seen fit to engage with him.

On alternate Mondays, when the weather was dour, Wallingford fancied he could still feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat.

But today was a Tuesday, and the weather was as fine as only an Italian spring morning could be, and Wallingford had long since come to regard Phineas Burke with a sort of bemused affection, and a great deal of concern for the state of his common sense.

Not that Wallingford’s own common sense was in the best of shape these days. He ran his palm over the smooth curve of his saddle, picked up the cloth, and began to rub in small meditative circles. He had no idea, in fact, if this was the proper way to oil one’s saddle. He’d never witnessed a saddle being oiled, and had only the faintest notion that saddles were oiled at all. But he imagined it was rather the same case as one’s boots, which were also made of leather, and he had come to terms with the regular oiling of such several weeks ago. Like everything else, one simply rolled up one’s sleeves and plunged in.

If a valet could figure it out, by God, a duke should have no trouble at all.

Wallingford rubbed a little harder, and saw with satisfaction that the leather was growing shinier, turning butter soft and supple beneath his oily cloth and oilier fingers. That was something, anyway. After a night fraught with erotic images of Miss Abigail Harewood atop the massive dining table, awash in candlelight; after waking at dawn to saddle Lucifer for a twenty-mile circuit about the hills; after hours spent swinging wildly between the ecstasy of succumbing to mad passion and the satisfaction of withstanding it, Wallingford welcomed the tactile reality of the softening leather. The usefulness of it. That he could point to this saddle and say to himself,
See there, I have done something right today. I have returned my saddle to its former glory.

He could master himself. He
would
master himself.

Still, the mastering bit would be a damned sight easier if there were no elfin-faced, round-bosomed temptresses about the castle, plotting his moral downfall with cheerful straightforwardness.

The sun shone pleasantly on Wallingford’s back. He had set the saddle atop the fence rail in order to both enjoy the fine weather and to facilitate his work, and expected the cheerful voice of Abigail Harewood to deliver its straightforward observations into his ear at any moment. She did not, however. This ought to have been a relief, and was instead unsettling.

Wallingford rubbed furiously, until the high gleam of the leather burned his eyes. Unsettling why? Unsettling because of what Abigail might be planning, or unsettling because he longed, in fact, for her to arrive by his side? Longed to hear her voice, longed to feel her hand on his elbow?

Wallingford stepped back to admire his handiwork, and was rewarded by a chorus of vowel-rich Italian profanity, delivered in shrieking contralto.

“Giacomo, my good man,” he said, turning. “By damn, you ought to have announced yourself. I might have injured you.”

“Signore Duca, my foot, it is broken!” Giacomo clutched the appendage in question and hopped in an irregular circle.

Wallingford folded his arms. “Oh, I say. Hard luck, that. When you have caught your breath, however, perhaps you might condescend to explain why you were skulking over my left shoulder just now, in such a suspicious fashion? Take your time,” he added, plucking a stiff black horsehair from the immaculate tweed of his jacket. “I am quite at leisure.”

“Not this . . . this
skulking
, signore!” Giacomo gasped. He stopped hopping and placed his injured foot tentatively on the grass, toe first. “Is not
suspicious
.” Slowly the foot eased flat; slowly Giacomo shifted his weight, ounce by ounce, to his ravaged tarsals. An aggrieved sigh marked each step of his progress.

“In your own time, Giacomo,” said Wallingford. “Or perhaps I can save you the bother and divine your purpose myself.” He tapped his finger against his chin. “If I should hazard a guess—and I’m not particularly a betting man by nature, though I’m known to dabble in the odd wager or two—I should imagine it has something to do with . . . now, let me ponder a moment . . .” He snapped his fingers. “The women.”

“The
women
,” Giacomo said scornfully, as he might say
the fermenting compost
. He sighed, with a trace of regret. “Is not the women.”

“It’s not? You astonish me.” Wallingford could not help a twinge of relief. God knew he was no particular champion of the sex, but Giacomo’s relentless whining and plotting in re the female inhabitants of the Castel sant’Agata made him feel positively chivalrous. No one but Wallingford, after all, should have the right to insult Abigail Harewood.

Giacomo shook his head. “No, Signore Duca. The women, they are cleaning the castle today. Is the visit of the priest.”

“The priest is coming? The devil you say!”

“
Signore Duca!
” Giacomo crossed himself. “
Si
, signore. The priest. For to bless the house for the . . . the spring . . . the come to life of our Lord . . .” He snapped his fingers frantically.

“Easter?” Wallingford hazarded. Good God, was it Easter already?

“For the Easter!
Si!
The women, they are busy today,
grazie a Dio
. But Signore Burke . . .”

“Burke? What the devil’s the matter with Burke?” Wallingford demanded. Lurid images filled his head: gas explosions, engine combustions, tea spilt over the battery. Anything might happen when one was tinkering with infernal machines all day long.

Giacomo put his hand to his heart. “He is needing help, signore. He has the wires, the . . . the batteries . . .” He leaned forward. “And that Signora Morley, that devil-woman, she like for to visit him, to
torment
him . . .”

“Aha! So it
is
the women!”

Giacomo shrugged. “Who can say, Signore Duca? But is better to be safe, no?”

Wallingford pictured Burke’s workshop, filled with sunshine and machine parts, with the masculine scents of oil and metal and leather, with the sound of Burke’s little grunts and snarls of concentration. A place of purpose, of genius and invention.

Also a convenient and secluded place for Lady Morley to play her tricks. In the struggles of last night, he had almost forgotten that Burke had his own troubles; clever, steadfast Burke, a gem of a chap, really, easy meat for the Dowager Marchioness of Morley.

And finally, and perhaps most importantly, the last place in the world Abigail Harewood would visit, on a fine spring morning.

Wallingford swung the saddle over his arm.

“Say no more, old fellow. I shall be down to buck him up directly.”

*   *   *

A
bigail cocked her head and gazed at the plate on the dining room table. “Are you quite certain?” she asked.

“
Si
, signora. Is the tradition. The priest, he bless the eggs, for to make the castle full of life.” Signorina Morini bobbed her headscarf—white today, presumably in honor of the purity of Our Lord, and of His earthly representative, due at the Castel sant’Agata in a scant few hours—and ran her hand over the rounded tops of the half dozen or so eggs on her most festively decorated plate.

“And you really believe that sort of thing?”

Morini turned to her with a reproachful slant to her eyes. “Signorina, you believe the other, the great curse, and you are not believing the eggs?”

“But they seem so . . . complacent.” Abigail stared once more at the smooth white shells, which indeed had not the smallest scrap of magic attaching to them. “Quite ordinary, in fact. I only fetched them this morning, straight from the coop, just like any other eggs.”

“Is not what is happening to the eggs
now
,” said Morini confidently. “Is
after
the blessing.”

“And you’re quite certain this priest of yours knows what he’s doing? Won’t accidentally cast some different blessing altogether? Our plans are fragile enough as it is, Morini.” Abigail drummed her worn fingernails against the wood. “I had the most difficult time with the duke last night; he’s really dead set against any sort of amorous activity whatsoever, let alone the transcendent curse-defying love of which we’re in desperate need. Why, he nearly caught Lord Roland and Lilibet in the library himself, which would have brought an end to everything!”

Morini smiled and shook her head. “You are not worrying about the duke. You are not worrying about the priest. Is fate. I know this, the very first minute I see you in the hall. This time, the fate is with us.”

“
This
time?” Abigail turned. “You’ve had others here before?”

“Of course we have had the others. Every thirty years, fifty years, it is all to try again. The ladies, the gentlemen of the blood. But . . .
pfft!
” Morini made a dismissive noise. “Nothing. Is only to wait and try again.”

“Oh, Morini.” Abigail reached out and patted the housekeeper’s hand. “I shall try my best, really I shall. I believe Alexandra is down at the workshop with Mr. Burke this instant, and how can he possibly resist her? And I’m quite sure something went on between Penhallow and Lilibet last night. She blushed like a . . . like a . . .” Abigail groped.

“A rose?”

“Yes, a rose! Quite! The sweetest pink rose, really lovely, when he came swinging through the door in that dashing way of his. It won’t be long there, I’m sure of it.” Abigail gave a dreamy sigh and leaned back against the peeling plaster wall.

“And you, signorina? You and the Signore Duca?” asked Morini, in a soft voice.

Abigail closed her eyes and laid her palms against the rough-smooth pattern of the plaster behind her. “Oh yes. The duke. I was going to speak to you about that.”

“Signorina.”

“Yes, well, as I said, I think we’re nearly there with the others, they’re quite in love, and all of them of the marrying sort. Eternal love, faithful love. All right and tight. But you see, Morini . . .”

“Signorina.”

Abigail opened her eyes and met Morini’s gaze earnestly. “It’s not quite the same with Wallingford and me. There’s a great deal of physical attraction, of course, not that His Grace seems inclined to consummate it, but I don’t think . . . Morini, you must understand, it’s not in his
nature
.”

“His nature, signorina?”

“I mean that certain people aren’t
suited
for married life. For faithful married life, I should say; anyone’s capable of existing in a state of marriage, everything else being equal. But the duke . . . even if he were to fall in love with me, Morini, which . . . well, it would be difficult to tell, because he isn’t exactly forthright about that sort of thing, but even if he
did
fall in love with me . . .”

“He love you, signorina,” Morini said quietly, motionlessly. “Is no doubting he love you.”

A sharp pain bit into Abigail’s palms; she looked down and realized it was her own fingernails. “Even if he did love me, he simply couldn’t be true to me. In six months, in a year, the novelty would wear off, or some seductive widow would catch his eye . . .”