Timeless Tales of Honor (87 page)

S
eated behind the mahogany desk
, the Duke of Danby glowered. “You there, I’m waiting for a visitor. Anyone arrived yet?”

Marcus Wheatley, steward to the Duke of Danby, looked at his employer from across the room. Even with the eye-patch that concealed his empty socket, Marcus could see the displeasure creasing the old codger’s face.

“Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.”

The duke waved at the leather-winged back chair across from his desk. “Sit. Sit. You know, first bring over a decanter of brandy and two glasses.”

Marcus hesitated, but only a moment, before he fetched the brandy and glasses. He pulled the stopper bottle and poured two generous glasses full of the brown brew. He glowered at the shimmery liquid. He’d sworn years ago he’d never touch anything French but had made an exception in terms of brandy. When a man had to deal with the physical pain and secret demons that haunted Marcus, well, then partaking in bloody French liquors was a minor betrayal of his promise, really.

He slid into the comfortable folds of the seat.

The duke took a sip of brandy and frowned back at him. “Must you always wear that nasty scowl? I’m the only one who's supposed to scowl in this household.”

A partial grin tilted the corner of Marcus’s lips until he flinched. Even after five years, the scar tissue still ached.

He took another sip. “How can I help you, Your Grace?”

The duke rolled his tumbler back and forth in his hands. All the while he studied Marcus the way he might an insect trapped under a glass.

“It’s Christmastide and you’re here with my miserable self. Why is that? Don’t you have any family of your own?”

Marcus hesitated. Remembrances flashed through his mind. He’d returned from war. His father had taken a single look at him and a sea of horror and revulsion had swept away any warmth the Viscount had felt for his son.

“I don’t,” he replied truthfully. Nor, for that matter, would he leave his responsibilities for the Christmas season.

“Humph,” the duke said. “I’m expecting company for the season.”

Marcus shifted in his seat. Now that was a surprise. The duke didn’t receive guests.

“Damn you, Wheatley. I swear you’re the only blighter not nosy enough to ask questions. Don’t you want to know who I’m expecting?”

Marcus shrugged and took another sip. “Not particularly, Your Grace.”

The duke chuckled. “That’s why I like you, Wheatley. You’re one of the only ones who doesn’t stand on ceremony with me.” He glanced out the window over Marcus’s shoulder. “Should have been here yesterday.”

“Is that correct?”

The duke appeared unimpressed with Marcus’s feigned interest. “You never asked how you got out of that rotten French prison.”

The blood froze in Marcus’s veins. His entire body went immobile and he blinked one good eye at the unexpected shift in conversation.

Danby waggled his brows. “Ahh, I see I’ve nabbed your attention now.”

Two years in a French prison had made a mark on Marcus. He had been tortured. Beaten. Humiliated. He came out of prison a patient man.

The duke rapped the desk with his fist. “Come now, in the three years you’ve been in my employ, you’ve not acknowledged who I am.”

Marcus downed the remaining contents of his glass. “And who is that, Your Grace?”

His Grace slammed his glass down on the desktop. “You rapscallion. I’m Olivia’s grandfather.”

“Olivia….”

The duke’s hand slashed the air. “Oh, come, now….don’t take me for the fool. You think I’d allow my granddaughter’s love to remain in the hands of the French? You think I’d let you return and be the subject of gossip and scorn? But I’ve been patient long enough. You owe Livvie more than this. So get that angry frown off your face, son. We’ve got company and I want you on your best behavior.”

For the first time, a frisson of unease traveled down his spine, a sense that all was not well.

“Your Grace?”

The duke grinned back at him.

A knock sounded on the door and the butler appeared.

“Your Grace, the young lady has arrived.”

The duke folded his arms across his chest. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath. “Have her brought down immediately.”

A dull humming filled Marcus’s ears. The young lady could be anybody and yet, Marcus knew with the same sickening insight that had saved him countless times in battle that this wasn’t just any lady.

Lady Olivia.

He closed his remaining eye.

Christ, the Duke of Danby had plunged him back into hell.

O
livia squinted
at the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle in the room she’d been designated. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening. “He wants to see me, now?” She’d only just arrived from a grueling carriage ride two hours past.

Mrs. Ealey frowned at her. “No. His Grace wanted to see you yesterday.”

“There was snow,” Olivia said, hurrying to keep step with the duke’s loyal housekeeper.

“Humph.” Mrs. Ealey seemed to believe the Duke of Danby’s wishes should supersede the weather.

They wound their way through the imposing castle without any further words, and only stopped when they reached the Duke of Danby’s office.

Olivia frowned. Now that she’d escaped, for the present, her father and Lord Ellsworth’s proposal, the dread of having to deal with her grandfather’s summons overtook her. “Mayhap I should wait…”

Mrs. Ealey knocked. “Lady Olivia has arrived, Your Grace.”

“Well then, show her in,” the duke thundered from the other side of the wood panel.

Olivia jumped, a hand at her breast.

Taking a deep breath, she entered the duke’s lair.

He stood but didn’t move out from behind his desk. “Come here, gel. Let me get a look at you.”

Olivia hesitated and then came forward.

He raked a disapproving gaze over her. “You’re old.”

Olivia bit the inside of her cheek at the insult. “Yes. Far older than the last time you saw me, Your Grace.”

“You’ve been giving your father a hard time, girl.” It wasn’t a question. “Well done.”

And it would appear Danby didn’t know her name.

He peered down his long, hawk-like nose at her. “Don’t give me that look.”

She frowned. “What look, Your Grace?”

“The one that says I don’t know your name.”

Olivia knew enough to remain silent.

“It’s Alexandra,” he barked.

She clenched her lips so tight her teeth snapped.

He snorted. “Get over here, Olivia.”

Olivia chuckled and crossed around the desk to greet the duke. It seemed as the years slipped by, the old duke let his guard dip a bit more. She reached up and placed a kiss on his wizened cheek.

“None o’ that, now,” he said, his voice gruff from discomfort at her display of emotion.

All the nervousness at his ducal summons dissipated. Danby may scare most of his off-spring, but when Olivia was around him, she was reminded that he was as gruff and loveable as one of father’s old hunting dogs. “You summoned me?”

The duke patted her on the shoulder in an awkward gesture of affection. “I have always enjoyed your directness, Olivia.”

She inclined her head. “Then you would be the first and only. My father—"

“Is a fool,” Danby cut in. He folded his hands behind his back. “Trying to marry you off to Ellsworth.”

A glass fell. The shatter of crystal filled the room and Olivia spun around.

In the dark shadows of the room, illuminated only by the blaze in the fireplace, stood a towering figure.

Olivia took a step closer to her grandfather who chuckled in response. “Not normally that clumsy, old fellow.”

The man stepped deeper into the shadows, managing to make himself one with the wall.

A pull of awareness coursed through Olivia. She peered into the corner of the room but the
old fellow
remained cloaked in darkness. She cocked her head, Danby forgotten. Olivia moved out from behind the desk, closer to the center of the room, and then paused. There was something ominously familiar about her grandfather’s—

“He’s my steward.”

Her brows knitted together. “Is he?”

And still, the towering figure said nothing.

“You have anything to say to my granddaughter, Lady Olivia?”

A blush heated her chest and climbed up her neck. It was all she could do to keep from reprimanding her grandfather. One didn’t correct the Duke of Danby, even for terribly gauche manners.

Apparently Danby’s steward considered himself exempt from the duke’s orders.

Determined to exert the years of genteel propriety drummed into her by governesses over the years, Olivia walked over to the man. “Hullo, Mr.….?”

He retreated a step in an apparent attempt to halt her forward advance.

Silence met her question.

She pointed her eyes at the ceiling. It really needn’t surprise her that the Duke of Danby’s new steward was equally laconic and rude and impossibly unsmiling.

Olivia had to deal with unpleasantness from her father, but she certainly didn’t need to accept it from this stranger. With a snap of her skirts, she turned back to face grandfather. “Forgive me, I should allow you to return to your business,” she said.

The stranger in the corner finally spoke. “I’ll return later, Your Grace.”

A shiver coursed along her spine at the gravelly quality of the man’s voice which appeared rusty from ill-use. And yet, her heart paused; something so wrenchingly familiar about that tone touched her.

It felt as though she knew him, and yet, she’d never met Grandfather’s steward in five years
. Bah. Foolishness
.

“Don’t be daft!” Danby barked. “I’m getting on in age, gel. I…I’m not well. Might be my last Christmas and all.”

The duke’s pronouncement knocked the air from her lungs. She peered at her grandfather, the stranger in the corner forgotten.

Impossible. The Duke of Danby was invincible. A veritable fortress of a man. Yet there were new wrinkles creasing his aged, sallow cheeks. His color a pallid white.

Goodness. That was why he’d summoned her. Olivia froze. She’d assumed he’d sent for her to save her from a match with the Earl of Ellsworth. It would appear there was far more to his summons.

Danby believed this would be his last Christmas.

It couldn’t be. He was the pillar of her family. Oh, he was a gruff, old codger most of the time, but he’d made it his personal responsibility to look after all Danby off-spring.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped.

“Grandfather,” she said, hating that she was unable to quell the tremor in her voice. The Duke of Danby abhorred weak display of emotions.

He waved her off. “I don’t want your pity, girl. I want your help. If this is going to be my last Christmas…”

“It’s not going to be your last Christmas.”

“You don’t determine when it’s my last Christmas, I do. I want this holiday done right, girl. And you’re the easiest one to get here because you don’t have a husband.”

A small laugh escaped her. So she’d been summoned as a last option. It mattered not. Danby was ill, and she wanted to be here for him, but oh, how she wished Mother had come. Mother would know how to help care for the sick duke.

The duke coughed into a monogrammed kerchief, a shudder wracked his reed-thin frame. “I’ve got some important work for you to see to.” The aged lines on his gaunt cheeks tightened as if in pain.

“Perhaps we should speak later, Grandfather. When you are feeling better.”

Danby’s brows dipped. “I’ll say when we’re finished up here, Livvie. And you, where do you think you’re going?”

Olivia looked over her shoulder.

Apparently grandfather’s steward had made a move to exit the room. He stood, his back to her and the duke, saying nothing.

It was foreign, this. Those in the duke’s employ, even family, deferred to his desires because simply put, the old lord would have it no other way. How very interesting that he’d tolerate such insolence from this man.

Olivia shuffled back and forth on her feet. Her discomfort had little to do with the ache in her lower back from days’ worth of traveling, and everything to do with the miserable, scowling person in Danby’s employ.

Not that she could see his lips. But she was beyond certain he was scowling.

Danby’s steward emanated a hardness. He apparently didn’t give a fig for the Christmastide season—goodwill, harmony, and all that.

“I’ve invited you both here for a reason. I want you to decorate the castle for Christmastide.”

She blinked, certain she’d heard him wrong. “Your Grace?”

A mottled flush stained the duke’s aging cheeks. “You heard me, girl. This place is rather gloomy for the Christmas season.”

Olivia glanced around the duke’s massive office. Yes, it certainly was, but then, Danby Castle was gloomy on a bright summer’s day. It didn’t have to do with the lack of ornamentation. It had to do with the cheerlessness of the duke’s home.

“You want me to decorate,” she said, a touch of hesitancy underlying her words.

There had to be more here than she could see. What was it about? What was it about?

“No, girl!” he barked. “I want you both to decorate.”

“No!”

She spun back around to face the forgotten steward.

A growl punctured the quiet of the room. Danby’s man of business was an angry, snapping beast. “I handle your business, Your Grace. I don’t decorate.”

A laugh bubbled up from her throat, and spilled past her lips. She raised a gloved finger to her lips and stifled the sound. Grandfather’s steward sounded as angry as if he’d been instructed to pluck all the hairs off his head.

The beast advanced toward her. “Is this funny to you, my lady?”

Olivia tossed her chin back, refusing to be intimidated by the faceless stranger. “Your reaction is. I’ve never known anyone to hate the Christmastide season.”

He stepped into the light and she gasped.

She took a step back and stumbled over her skirts as she gazed at the steward. A series of intersecting scars bisected a face that she could tell had once been beautiful: the hard-square of his jaw, the chiseled plains of his cheeks showed him to be a man of power and strength. Her gaze wandered to the black velvet patch that covered his eye. With his thick, dark locks pulled back in a neat queue, he put her in mind of a pirate.