Forbidden to the Duke

‘You are hiding. From everything. From the past and the future. The duchess needs you. You know how long the nights can be after a death and we had each other. We had the three of us, you, me and Thessa. You are just like our pateras, our father.’ Melina crossed her arms.

‘That is an evil thing to say. I am surprised your tongue does not choke you for forcing those words past it.’

‘You are like Father. Of the three of us, you are the most like him,’ her sister continued, pacing the room. ‘Even Mana said so, just not where you could hear her.’

Bellona raised her voice. ‘I am not like him.’

‘When we angered him, he would go paint.’ Melina swaggered with her shoulders as she walked. ‘When he did not want to do something, he would paint.’ She stopped and mused. ‘Did you ever notice how paint brushes are shaped almost like little arrows?’

‘You’re wrong to speak so. I practise archery. I do not live for it.’

‘Even the way you stick out your chin. Just like him.’ She jutted out her jaw in an exaggerated pose.

‘You always say that when you have no better words to fight with.’

Melina returned her stance to normal. ‘I cannot believe my own sister has no kindness in her heart for a woman with no daughters or sisters.’

Bellona raised her chin. ‘I will tell the duke I will stay a short time with his mother. It will be better than listening to you. You are the one like Father, insisting on having your way.’

‘Only when I am right.’ She examined Bellona. ‘Please arrange your hair before you see the duke.’

‘Of course.’ Bellona patted both sides of her head, achieving nothing.

‘Much better.’ Melina paused. ‘I expected you to pull a strand loose.’

‘I thought of it.’ Bellona sighed. But the duke probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

Melina reached to Bellona and pushed her youngest sister’s hair up at the sides, moving the pins around. ‘There. Now you look as well as me.’

Bellona walked past her. ‘Now you see why I do not show my face in society.’

Melina’s chuckle followed Bellona from the room out into the hallway.

When Bellona reached the sitting room, the duke’s gaze swept over her. The rock stood, unyielding.

Even with a scowl on his face, she still wanted to look at him. The thought irritated her.

‘I will return to your house,’ she said curtly.

The flicker behind his eyes—the intake of breath. She would have imagined he’d just been hit, except his face softened much the same as Warrington’s did when her sister walked into the room. The duke inclined his head in acknowledgment. ‘It will mean a lot. To the duchess.’

Chapter Four

Bellona arrived at Harling House the next morning and the housekeeper appeared at her side almost instantly. The woman had a sideways gait, but moved forward so fast Bellona hurried to follow.

After being shown a chamber whose ceiling would need a heavy ladder to reach, she mused, ‘I could put an archery target in here and practise without leaving the room.’

‘We have no targets which are suitable for use inside.’ The woman’s face pinched into a glare that would stop any servant.

Bellona gave the woman the same look Warrington had given her countless times. ‘I suppose if I asked the duke, he would arrange something.’

‘Of course,’ the housekeeper said. ‘This was his childhood room. Let me know if you need anything.’ Then she darted away.

The room had the same scent of the storage rooms in Warrington’s house and made her miss the sea air. No flounces and lace adorned it. Instead there were walls the colour of sand and darker curtains that required strength to move. She wondered if every trace of the boy had been removed, or if the room had never had anything of him in it.

The huge chamber didn’t feel like home, but she was tired of looking for Melos in everything she saw and not finding it.

She placed her bow in the corner. Her mother would not have believed such a large room existed for one person to sleep in.

Someone knocked at the door. A maid, who looked almost the same as the one from Warrington’s house, suggested Bellona go to the library to meet with His Grace. Curiosity and the desire to see more of the house pulled her straight to him.

* * *

‘Miss Cherroll. Welcome,’ the duke greeted her. Quiet words, almost cold, but his quick turn from the window, and one step in her direction, caused a flutter in her stomach.

The last year of his life might have been no easier than the duchess’s, she realised. If Bellona had lost either of her sisters to death, the world would have become dark and bleak and suffocating.

He surprised her by the merest corner of his lips turning up at the edge. ‘The maid who is unpacking for you will store your arrows and knives in a safe place. She will direct the footman to bring them to you each time you need to practise marksmanship and he will take them when you return to the house and make sure they are properly cared for.’

‘You are most thoughtful of my property,’ she said, thankful he did not know of the knife in her boot.

‘Of course.’

‘Then let us discuss payment for my stay.’

‘Certainly.’

‘I want another two score of arrows. The best that can be made. I also require a dagger perfectly balanced. And I must have a pistol that will fit my hand and someone to show me how to clean, load and shoot it. I have heard there is a Belgian hidden-trigger boot pistol in which the trigger does not fall down until it is cocked. I would like to see one of those. You can have someone bring selections of these things for me to choose from.’

‘Ah.’ The word wasn’t clearly formed from his lips, but was more of a sound. ‘No duelling swords? Fencing lessons? Cannons?’ he asked, blinking once each time he named a weapon.

‘Cannons are heavy, and—’ she touched the bridge of her nose ‘—so are swords. A man with long reach can best me any day. I could not practise enough.’

‘Miss Cherroll. Any necessities will be furnished to you and they do not include guns, knives, arrows or swords. You will accept the usual payment from me—enough to buy all the armaments you need and Warrington can help you choose the weapons after you leave. I will refrain from paying you until then because I realise what you might do with the funds. Since you do not like to see game injured, I fear what you might plan to do with any weaponry. You will not have such items in my home.’ He stood with feet planted firm. ‘I myself do not even keep them at hand.’

‘No duelling pistols?’ She raised a brow.

He looked aside and absently moved the pen at his desk on to the blotter. ‘Yes, I have them, but they were gifted to my father and they are locked away. There is not even powder for them.’

‘Swords?’

‘Fencing is something we all had to learn.’

‘Where are the swords?’

‘I believe they are locked in a case in the portrait gallery. The butler has the keys and he will not be sharing them. With anyone.’ His voice rumbled from his chest. ‘I think you forget you are here to see my mother, a woman of trifling size who is stronger with her glares than most people are with their body.’

‘Do you have daggers? Arrows? Flintlocks?’

His head moved enough so she couldn’t see his eyes, then, before she could protect herself, he directed his full attention at her, consuming her with it. ‘What do you fear?’

‘Not having weapons.’

He shook his head. ‘I am sure there is a bow and arrows somewhere. I don’t think the bow has a string any more. No daggers.’ Still standing alongside the desk, he splayed his fingers and gave the top several hard raps. ‘Miss Cherroll, you do not have to concern yourself that someone will attack you in my home. I have footmen and stablemen no one would dare confront. I have had no violence on my estate, ever. That will not change while you are here. I realise you had a harrowing experience on your ship journey here and not a pleasant meeting with my gamekeeper, but you are now in what is the safest place in the world. My home.’ For a second, he spoke with his expression. Relief. Thankfulness. ‘I must let you know I was pleased to see you arrive.’

She didn’t think any man, ever, had looked at her with so much hope on his face.

‘You are in more danger from a fall on the stairs than anything else,’ he added.

Or a fall from a cliff.

* * *

‘I am exceedingly angry at the duke for bringing you here,’ the duchess said to Bellona.

The duchess wore a fichu tucked into her bodice and the sleeves of her obsidian gown almost swallowed her hands.

The older woman had a maid at her side, holding a stack of four books. ‘You must know that I cannot take my anger out on him, so it will land about your ears.’ She pulled out one book and waved the servant away.

‘I am not happy with him either.’ Bellona sat in the matching chair. ‘I will probably share that with both of you.’

The duchess frowned. ‘Why are you not pleased with him?’

‘He took my bow and a small dagger.’

‘Your mother should have taught you better.’

‘Why? I did not need to be better on Melos and I am fine enough to sit in a duke’s home.’

She duchess snorted, just as Bellona’s own mother might have. She held out the book. ‘You may read to me.’

‘I would rather talk.’

‘I would rather hear what someone else wrote.’ The woman thumped the book and held it out again.

‘I am not going to read to you.’

‘You have no choice. I have asked you to. I am your elder.’

This was not going to get any better. Perhaps his mother would summon the duke to complain about Bellona. That would tip his tea kettle over.

Bellona saw no reason to explain her struggle to read the English language to the duchess.

‘It would indeed be an honour for you to read to me,’ the duchess said, changing her methods, ‘and might dispose me more kindly towards you.’

‘I do not mind if you are not nice to me.’

‘Well, I do. My prayer book is the only thing that gives me hope. My eyes hurt from reading it and the letters blur. The maid cannot read and I do not wish to replace her, though I might be forced to because I need someone who can see better than I.’

‘You may replace me,’ Bellona said. ‘I do not read English words.’

‘But your sister is a countess. And everyone knows she is from the best society in your home country.’ The duchess looked at the book. ‘So do not feed me such nonsense that you cannot read. Your family would not educate one sister and leave another unschooled. I have received notes from your sister several times. One she wrote when she visited me and I could not see her, so she must write them herself.’

‘I am not my sister.’

The duchess shook her head. ‘You do not read?’

‘I know the English letters. Melina read our father’s letters to Thessa and me many times and I could understand most of the written words. It has been a long time since I have looked at words, though. I do not like them on paper. I prefer a person’s lies when I can see their face.’

‘I do beg your pardon.’ Words spoken from training. ‘I cannot begin to imagine what my son was thinking to enlist a companion who could not read to me.’

‘I do not dance or do any of the other things society women do, except archery. It is my favourite thing next to my niece and nephews. I sew, but only because one must have clothes. I do not like the nice stitches to make flowers. I like the strong sewing. I am from my mana’s world.’

‘I am from my mother’s world as well,’ the duchess said. ‘Every day we had our hair dressed to perfection, our skin just so. We could not move if it might disturb our clothing. I sometimes hated it, but now I see the value of it. One must give others something to aspire to.’ She leaned towards Bellona. ‘Take a note of that. Because you are a companion only and from some foreign land, I will tolerate some folly on your part.’

‘I am thankful I will not have to tolerate any on your part.’

‘Child, I say again that I do not know what the duke was thinking to ask you to stay with me.’

‘He was thinking I would be a slap for you.’

The duchess showed no outward reaction. ‘Rolleston is making a good duke. He has always been a good son. Although he might have erred this one time.’

‘He might have.’

‘Do not be so quick to agree with me. Surely you have some accomplishments? What entertainments are you versed in? Recitations? Music? Song?’

Bellona smiled, tilted her head to the side and said, ‘Would you like to hear a song the English sailors taught me? I am not sure of its meaning.’

The duchess’s neck moved like a snake rising to eye prey, trying to get situated for the closest tender spot. ‘Oh, my dear, I think you know full well whatever that song meant and I am not daft enough to fall for that one.’

‘I already told you that I have no accomplishments,’ Bellona insisted flatly.

‘How do you spend your days?’

‘Archery. The forest. I spend hours with my niece—I miss the little one. Her joy makes me laugh.’

The duchess opened the book. ‘I know what it is like to miss someone.’

‘You spend too much time with books,’ Bellona said. ‘If they make your eyes hurt it is not good for you. Poison in the stomach makes it hurt. The head is the same. Your eyes are telling you that you must not read.’

‘Oh. Thank you for informing me.’ The duchess digested the words.

Rhys walked into the room, greeting them both, a book under his arm. His eyes had a faraway look, but he settled into a chair and asked them to continue as they’d been because he needed to study the accounts.

But even though he stared at the volume in his hands, Bellona felt his thoughts were on her much the same as a governess might have her back to the children, but be aware of their every move. She felt the need to test her idea and knew she would before the conversation was over.

The duchess leaned towards Bellona. ‘How did you learn to speak English?’

‘My father was English.’ Her father was alive, but he was dead as far as she was concerned. ‘He insisted we only speak English when he was home. He made us recite to him. Yet he knew Greek well and if we spoke Greek in anger, we were punished. He is... It is hard to talk of him.’ She sniffed and lowered her face. That would discourage any questions of him.

‘At least you speak two languages.’

‘Some French, too.’

The older woman nodded. She appraised Bellona. ‘Did you leave behind family in Greece?’

‘None close,’ Bellona said. ‘I have never wed. Marriage. It makes a woman change. And cry. Men are only good for lifting and carrying, much like the bigger animals that do not think well.’

The duke didn’t respond to her deliberate prod.

‘Well, yes, some of them can be,’ the duchess admitted. ‘But marriage is not all bad. Children make you change and cry, too. I do not know what I would have done without my own.’ A wisp of a smile landed on the duchess’s face. ‘My three children were the best things that ever happened to me.’ Then her expression changed with the memory and she began to sniff.

Bellona searched her mind for a distraction. ‘At least I will not have to marry—like His Grace will have to before he gets much older.’

His mother’s sniffle turned into a splutter. Bellona didn’t have to turn her head to know where the duke was looking. She pretended to look like her own thoughts were far away.

‘Yes. He will marry. Of course,’ the duchess said. ‘But that is not for you to discuss, Miss Cherroll.’

‘I hoped that you would call me Bellona.’

‘That is a strange name.’

‘I was named for the Roman goddess of war. I remember that every day.’

‘Perhaps you should put it from your mind. She doesn’t sound like someone appropriate to be named after.’

Bellona shook her head. ‘I’m proud of it. To get to England, I had to flee in the night. Thessa’s suitor chased us.’ She had slept though the final confrontation, unaware of all about her. Earlier, she’d fallen asleep with the rhythm of the ship and woken when her sister had shaken her awake. Thessa’s rapid voice had fallen back into the Greek language while she’d told Bellona how the pirates from their homeland had followed the ship, planning to force the women into marriage.

She thought of what Melina had told her of Almack’s—a marriage mart, her sister had said.

‘Have you ever been pursued, Your Grace?’ She turned to Rhys. He did have her direct in his vision, watching her without censure, but as if she were a very interesting...bee, and he wasn’t afraid of getting stung.

‘Not by a pirate,’ he said. ‘Only by a very unhappy bull.’

‘I’m sure you could escape.’

‘I have managed thus far.’ He glanced at the book again, but even with his eyes averted, she could still feel his attention on her.

‘My poor Geoff,’ the duchess said, ‘he was once chased by an angry dog and I thought—’ Her lip quivered and she reached for a handkerchief.

Bellona did not want the discussion to return to sadness. A slap with words worked as well as one across the face. ‘Reading does appear a good way to waste time. A way for people with no chores to be idle.’

The duchess’s sniff turned into a choke.

She had the older woman’s full attention and Rhys’s book looked to have turned humorous. For little more than a blink, their eyes met. Sunshine suffused her and didn’t go away when he examined the book again.

* * *

After his morning ride, Rhys heard the clock as he strode into his home—the same peals he’d heard his whole life. The sounds didn’t change, but if they clanked about in his ears, he knew the world felt dark. For the first time in a long time, the peals were musical.

His mother had spoken to him repeatedly about the heathen, informing him that the miss was beyond help. Each time she’d recounted the discussion between the two, her voice rose in anger. Not the bare mewl it had been before.

Finally, she’d left her room of her own volition to come and find him to complain with exasperation of having to deal with this motherless child who’d been left too long to her own devices. She’d wondered how he could possibly expect his own mother to correct such a tremendous neglect of education in the woman. ‘It would take years, years,’ she’d explained as she walked away, shaking her head.

He’d quashed his immediate urge to go to Bellona and pull her into his arms, celebrating with her the rebirth of his mother’s life.

Thoughts of Bellona always caused his mind to catch, wait and peruse every action or word concerning her a little longer. The miss did something inside him. Like a flint sparking against steel. Made him realise that his heart still beat, his life still continued and that some day he’d be able to walk into a room and not be aware of all that was missing, but see what was actually there.

He turned, moving towards the archery target that now stood in the garden beneath the library window.

Disappointment edged into him when he did not find her near the targets she’d had placed about. He went inside the house, thinking of her hair and the way she reminded him of pleasures he did not need to be focusing on right now. As he passed the library door, he heard pages rustling.

He stepped into the library. Stopped. Stared.

She was lying on his sofa. Around her face, her hair haloed her like a frazzled mess, more having escaped from her bun than remained. This was the moment he would have walked to her, splayed his fingers, held her cheeks in both hands and kissed her if...

Ifs were not for dukes, he reminded himself.

She rested stockinged feet on the sofa. Her knees were bent and her skirt raised to her calves while she frowned into a book. His mind tumbled in a hundred directions at once, all of them landing on various places of her body. The woman should not be displaying herself in such a way.

Courtesans did not act so...relaxed and improper. Even the women he’d visited in London—ones without modesty—would have remained much more sedate in daylight hours.

But he remembered his manners. Perhaps he’d erred, not she. She had not heard him enter the room. He took a quiet step back because he did not want to mortify her by letting her know he’d seen her sprawled so indelicately.

But then he saw the books. A good dozen of his most precious books scattered about her. One was even on the carpet. How could she? It was one thing to trespass, another to shoot an arrow at a man, but...the books...

Books were to be treated as fine jewels—no. Jewels could be tossed about here and there without concern—books were to be treasured, removed from the shelves one at a time, carefully perused and immediately returned to their place of honour. They were made of delicate materials. A nursemaid would not toss a baby here or there and books deserved the same care.

She looked up, swung her stockinged feet to the floor as she sat, dropped the book at her side. Her foot now sat on top of a boot, her skirt hem covering it, as she lowered her hand towards the remaining footwear.

Modesty. Finally. ‘You may dress.’ He turned his back on her slightly, so he would not see if her skirt flipped up while she put on those worn boots. He would have thought Warrington would have done better by her. He would put in a word to see that she had decent indoor shoes.

He heard a thump and the sound of pages fluttering.

‘I cannot read this—this—’

From the corner of his eye, he saw the title of one of his father’s favourite volumes disgracefully on the floor. He pressed his lips together and gave himself a moment. ‘Why are you in the library since you disregard reading?’ he finally asked.

‘Your mother has insisted I pick a book, study it,’ she muttered, ‘and be able to speak about it. She is punishing me.’

He heard the sound of her fidgeting about and then silence. He turned.

She glared at him, but she only had one boot on and she held the other in her lap, her right hand resting on it.

‘I do not think I like your mother,’ she continued. ‘The duchess told the servant who stores my bow I am not to have it. The servants are afraid to disobey her.’ She stared at him. ‘The duchess said it is good for me to learn to read English. That I should not be unleashed on society

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