The Duke of Christmas Past (2 page)

A shiver ran up Donovan's spine. "What foolishness is
this? I beg you for mercy. Let me awaken from this nightmare."

"You've spent eight years punishing yourself far more
than I ever could." Sorrow crossed the past duke's face. The lines
on his brow deepened; his lips turned down slightly.

"So your intentions are to make my suffering worse?"
Donovan snapped. No one needed to remind him of what he'd lost…
what he didn't have.

"Of course not. I intend to send you back to
Christmas Eve 1812."

Donovan hrumphed. "And how would that be?"

"Like this."

Past Duke shoved him hard in the chest, pressed so
forcefully Donovan was sure the apparition's fingers touched his
heart, causing it to momentarily stop. Then his thoughts ceased and
darkness consumed him.

December 24, 1812

Donovan's heart cried as bits and pieces of images
from his past danced through his mind. Each one somehow tied to the
next, as if leading him somewhere specific. Where he couldn't
guess, because his eyes refused to open, no matter how hard he
tried.

One by one, the conjured memories flashed in front of
him. Strange memories… ones that showed sadness. But a mind
remembered as it wanted. Surely the sadness he saw on his sisters'
faces was just a reflection of his own heartbreak. Daphne and Diana
had been given secure futures with men highly respected by the
ton
. Wasn't a good marriage the ambition of all women? Yet
the pictures parading through his mind depicted a very different
reality.

His older sister Daphne's wedding. She'd been
eighteen and he'd been a boy of fifteen. The bubbly enthusiasm that
had always sparkled in her brown eyes seemed to disappear with each
tear that rolled down her cheek, leaving behind shimmering pools of
anguish. On her wedding day? Why had he never realized they weren't
tears of joy?

Having grown into a man of twenty and learned the
ways of the world, he'd assumed Diana's solemn expression and dead
eyes reflected her fear of the wedding night. After all, she'd been
but a girl of seventeen. But now… now he saw things more clearly.
He'd stood at the back of the church after the ceremony. Rather
than stay by her new husband's side and greet their guests, Diana
had hidden in a small alcove with Tess, crying. They'd been
whispering, and he hadn't been able to make out the words. But it
had been tears of agony his sister cried, not panic.

Tess's angelically beautiful face swam into view
again. Her baby blue eyes held him mesmerized, pulling him in
completely. He drew closer, unable to resist the warm invitation in
her penetrating stare, not that he wanted to resist it. He had to
taste her, had to touch his lips to hers.

She drifted closer and he reached out to her. His
fingers met nothing but air as the image vanished, leaving a black
void. The boisterous boom of his father's voice filled the empty
space.

"An advantageous marriage is a must."

"Can't see how I could possibly top these marriage
matches with little Delia!"

"A daughter's place is to marry the best suitor for
the family."

"Donovan, you get the notion of marrying anyone less
than the daughter of a duke out of your mind. Must keep the dukedom
pure with only noble bloodlines."

It grew quiet. Only darkness filled his mind, and he
was able to open his eyes. Relieved to be waking from such a horrid
dream, he let out a sigh.

The fog of sleep cleared. Overbright light pounded
against his eyes, and he squinted to protect them, blinking several
times. His walnut desk with the black tooled-leather blotter sat
against the wall opposite the fireplace. In the corner, to the left
of his desk, was the small writing desk his secretary used. In
front of the fireplace stood the two black leather high-back chairs
with side tables. This was definitely his study. And yet…

He'd been sitting in near-dark, hadn't he? But now,
wall sconces as well as several candles illuminated the room. Six
candles resting in beds of evergreen shone brightly atop the
mantel. The size of the roaring fire indicated a Yule log had been
placed on the grate.

Blasted servants! I made myself clear about
Christmas.

"It's quite an extraordinary experience, traveling
through time, I know. But I assure you, the feeling is
temporary."

Donovan jumped from his chair and spun around. Dread
washed over him.
This cannot be.

The ghost with his face, his voice, stared back. He
still wore the outlandish burgundy tailcoat with gold trim and
buttons. The poor man had no sense of style, truth be told. Why
else would he wear such a foppish jacket with black boots and black
satin breeches—

What madness is this?
The worn brown
pantaloons and slippers he'd been wearing were gone, and he was now
dressed in the same formal finery as the ghostly duke. Except for
the wine-colored tailcoat. Thank the stars he'd been spared the
torture of wearing the hideous thing. But how had he come to have
different clothing on? And why did the attire seem so familiar?

"Delia always was your favorite. And we both know you
never married because you always loved Tess."

"You know nothing. I—" He clamped his mouth shut. How
could he have an argument with himself and win?

"It might be prudent to gain control of your senses,
old man. If memory serves, Delia will be charging through that door
any moment."

"Nonsense! You blabber nonsense! No one more than I
wishes Delia had not perished. And Tess… So unless I, too, have met
my demise, I—''

"In 1820 she is dead. But in this time, in 1812 —
more specifically, Christmas Eve, 1812 — she is well and in good
spirits and looking forward to Lord and Lady Kringle's ball at
Holly Hall. And Tess is quite single."

Hope had the pace of his heart quickening.
Tess is
still single. Delia is still alive.
He shook the thoughts from
his mind, scolding his heart for believing such nonsense. "This
foolishness has gone on long enough." Donovan made a fist and
prepared to slam it against the other duke's jaw. "It's time I —
ah, I understand." He unclenched his hand and let his arm fall to
his thigh. "My grief and guilt have tricked my mind into believing
that the impossible has happened. That I am again standing in my
study in 1812." As he spoke, he walked around his desk.

"What are you doing?" Past Duke asked.

"Arguing with myself has done little to pull me from
this nightmare. Mayhap a glance at the missives and ledgers on my
desk will aid the voice of reason in understanding that 1812 has
long since passed and this is 1820. Thus sending you back where you
belong. Wherever that may be."

"And if you're wrong?"

Donovan paused long enough to wave a hand at Past
Duke. "Do be quiet. Your attempt to distract me shall be in vain."
He resumed his search, shifting papers on the desk for several
moments before finding what he wanted. With a smirk, he looked up
at the other him. "Ah, here we are. The notes my secretary needs me
to sign, dated…" He glanced at the letters, unbelieving. "This
cannot be. There must be a mistake. I'm certain there's a missive
here from my friend John Dickens."

"Unless I'm telling the truth," Past Duke
suggested.

Eyes narrowed, Donovan glared at the specter. "You
are
not
real." He tossed the pages to the desk and jerked
open the ledger book. Nothing had been written past December 24,
1812. He shoved the book aside and frantically searched the other
papers littering the desk. None of them had a date past 1812
either. "This cannot be. I don't—"

His other self was gone.

Now he disappears.

With a sigh, he sank down into the desk chair. He
propped his elbows on the leather blotter and dropped his head into
his hands. How could his mind make sense of this? The only logical
explanation was he'd died and his destination had not been heaven
but a home of eternal torment.

But I don't feel dead…

Rest. I just need to find my bed and get a good
night's sleep. All will be well come morning.

He rose and started for the door.

"Of course he's in his study. He's always in his
study."

He stiffened, and fear mixed with excitement held him
frozen in place. It couldn't be. Then the door opened and she was
there — really there, standing in the doorway…

Delia.

Terror and joy gripped him. He didn't know whether to
be afraid she was real or scared she might not be. How he'd give
anything to carry this image with him. Her face alight with
happiness and excitement, a smile so contagious it infected all
around her.

The study came to life in a way it hadn't in years.
Still, Donovan couldn't reconcile that he was back in 1812,
reliving Christmas Eve, when in reality it was 1820. Traveling
through the wall of time just wasn't possible.

This Delia had long since faded from his memory.
Replaced with the image of her cheeks stained with dried tears, her
bright blue eyes dulled from crying, pain etched across her
beautiful face… pain he'd caused.

That had been the last time he'd seen her. March 12,
1813. She hadn't even celebrated her eighteenth birthday.

But she was here now. Standing in front of him. Alive
and happy. He closed the space between them and embraced her,
grabbed her to him tightly, wanting to never let her go. It had
been so many years, too many. It no longer mattered if this was a
dream or not. He was holding Delia, his baby sister, and she was
alive and she was real.

"My gown!" She pushed at him. "You're wrinkling my
gown."

Heat flickered across his face, and he reluctantly
released her. "Sorry."

She scowled and ran her gloved hands down the front
of her dress, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles he'd caused. He
stared, unspeaking. The bold red of the satin dress — made more
noticeable by the gold and white of her pelisse — shimmered about
her, bringing out the deep blue of her eyes.

Delia lifted her face. "Are you — why are you staring
at me like that?"

How did he explain? He couldn't find the words. How
could he tell her that he'd missed her when she didn't even know
eight years had passed? Had eight years passed? For him it had, and
every day without her had been torture. And he'd never stop blaming
himself for her death. How did he tell her she'd be dead in a few
short months? What could he have done differently?
What can I do
differently to keep her safe? Is this it? Is this why I came
back?

"Donovan…"

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Delia placed her hands on her hips. "Honestly, what
has gotten into you this evening? You still aren't wearing your
gloves, hat, or the burgundy tailcoat I had made for you."

"Tailcoat?"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "You aren't going to
make a fuss over it, are you? Black is such a dull color."

This isn't real. She's not real.
No matter how
much his mind screamed at him that this wasn't possible, that he
couldn't be seeing his long-dead sister, he couldn't deny what was
right in front of him. Her eyes shining, dancing with laughter and
life. He hated that that light had been taken from her.

Rage boiled in him again. It was this dreadful
holiday. It brought back all the memories, made him relive it all
again. All the sadness, all the pain. The hurt in Delia's eyes, the
tears streaming down her face. He couldn't go through that again,
couldn't bear it. Perhaps if they'd never gone to the ball…

"Do hurry, brother dear. We mustn't be late picking
up Tess."

"I'm not at all certain that spending Christmas Eve
at a ball is the best use of our time. Perhaps we should stay home
with Mother instead."

Her face fell and her hands dropped to her sides.
"But we have to go. We just have to. You promised."

He couldn't. He just couldn't take her to the ball,
knowing what would happen. They'd stay home and enjoy a quiet
Christmas Eve with their mother. He'd relish the evening with his
baby sister, before she disappeared from his life again or he
awoke.

"My mind is quite made up. I'll send the carriage for
Tess and inform her we are unable to attend."

"It's not fair." Delia stomped her foot. "You don't
want to go because you know—" She clamped her mouth shut.

Yes, he knew. Knew she only had a few months to live.
How he wished it wasn't true, and he envied her the gift of
oblivion.

"I'll never forgive you if you don't take me. Never!"
She fled the room, yelling for their mother.

The words were like a punch to his gut. She'd said
that to him at the ball. And had meant it. She'd gone to her watery
grave hating him. He couldn't let that happen again.

The room fell cold. A strong current of air swept
through the study, extinguishing all the candles and lamps, casting
the room into darkness save the flickering of the weak flames in
the fireplace. Chills raced up and down Donovan's spine, raising
the hair at the nape of his neck.

"You aren't allowed to change the future, only fix
it."

He jerked around, startled. Past Duke stood beside
one of the high-back chairs with his arms crossed, the bright light
illuminating from him almost blinding in the darkened study.

Donovan cursed. "What does that mean?" The blasted
man could go to the devil for all he cared. How was he supposed to
fix the past if he didn't change it?

Past him narrowed his eyes. "It means you have to
face what happened and fix it. Not try to manipulate things so they
turn out the way you want. And the only way to do that is for you
to go to the ball — again."

Of their own accord, his feet moved toward the door,
his body full of dread. This was surely eternal damnation, having
to relive the pain and suffering of the people he loved the
most.