Forbidden to the Duke

Rhys looked out over Warrington’s snipped and clipped and trimmed and polished world, almost able to hear the laughter from years before.

Only, the laughter was not his, but directed at him.

Of course, both he and Warrington had matured now. They had left foolish prattle and childish games behind.

Warrington strode in. Rhys could still taste the medicinal the others had found in the apothecary jar and forced into Rhys’s mouth when they were children. That had to be his earliest memory.

‘Your Grace,’ Warrington greeted. The earl moved to stand at the mantel. He glanced once at the painting above it before he asked, ‘So what is the honour that brings you to Whitegate?’

Rhys held out the arrow. ‘I found this on my property and heard that you have a guest who practises archery. I’d like to return it to her.’

Rhys had never seen Warrington’s face twitch until that moment. He studied Rhys as if they’d just started a boxing match. ‘You are interested in talking with Bellona?’

Warrington’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m sure whatever she did—’ Warrington spoke quickly. ‘She just doesn’t understand our ways.’ He paused and then sighed. ‘What did she do now?’

‘I just wish to meet with her,’ Rhys said, ‘and request that she refrain from shooting arrows on to my property—particularly near others.’

Warrington grimaced and then turned it into a smile. ‘She does... Well...you know...’ He held out a palm. ‘Some women like jewellery. Flowers. Sharp things. She likes them.’

‘Sharp things?’

Warrington shook his head. ‘Never a dull moment around her.’

‘Truly?’

‘Beautiful voice—when she’s not talking. Her sister forced her to attend the soirée at Riverton’s, hoping Bellona would find something about society that suited her. Pottsworth wanted to be introduced. She’d not danced with anyone. I thought it a good idea even though he is—well, you know Potts. She smiled and answered him in Greek. Thankfully none of the ladies near her had our tutors. Riverton overheard and choked on his snuff. We left before he stopped sputtering. He still asks after her every time he sees me. “How is that retiring Miss Cherroll?”’

‘Can’t say as I blame her. You introduced Pottsworth to her?’ Rhys asked drily.

‘I’m sure she might wander too far afield from time to time,’ Warrington murmured it away, ‘but your land has joined mine since before our grandparents’ time and we’ve shared it as one.’ Warrington gave an encompassing gesture, then he toyed with what could have been a speck on the mantel. ‘We’re all like family. We grew up together. I know you and I don’t have the very close bond of our fathers, but still, I count you much the same as a brother of my own.’

‘Much like Cain and Abel?’

Warrington grinned. He waved the remark away. ‘You’ve never taken a jest well.’

‘The bull,’ Rhys said, remembering the very incensed animal charging towards him, bellowing. Rhys was on the wrong side of the fence, his hands on the rails, and the older boys pushed at him, keeping him from climbing to safety. He’d felt the heat from the bull’s nostrils when they’d finally hefted him through to the other side. Laughing.

He couldn’t have been much more than five years old.

Warrington had instigated many of the unpleasant moments of Rhys’s childhood. Actually, almost every disastrous circumstance could be traced back to War. Rhys had been lured into a carriage and then trapped when they wedged the door shut from the outside, and then he’d spent hours in the barn loft when they had removed the ladder. When they’d held him down and stained his cheeks with berries, he’d waited almost two years to return fresh manure to everyone involved. It had taken special planning and the assistance of the stable master’s son to get manure put into Warrington’s boots.

Rhys’s mother and father had not been happy. The one time he had not minded disappointing his father.

War’s face held camaraderie now—just like when the new puppy had been left in the carriage, supposedly.

‘I must speak with your wife’s sister,’ Rhys said. ‘I might have an idea which could help us both.’

‘What?’ The word darted from Warrington’s lips.

‘I thought Miss Cherroll might spend some time with the duchess. Perhaps speak of Greece or...’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever tales she might have learned.’

‘I forbid—’ Warrington’s head snapped sideways. ‘No. She is my family and she must stay with us.’

Rhys lips quirked up. ‘But, War, we’re like brothers. Your family is my family.’

Warrington grunted. ‘You didn’t believe that flop when I said it. Don’t try to push it back in my direction.’

Rhys smiled. ‘I suppose it is your decision to make, War. But remember. I am serious and I will not back down.’

‘I assure you, Rhys, Miss Cherroll is not the gentle sort that the duchess is used to having tea with.’

Rhys gave a slight twitch of his shoulder in acknowledgement. Warrington had no idea his mother was only having tea with memories of death. She’d lost her will to live. With her gone, he would have no one. No one of his true family left. And he was not ready to lose the last one. ‘Call Miss Cherroll. Let me decide.’

With a small cough of disagreement, Warrington shrugged. ‘Speak with her and you’ll see what I mean.’ He reached for the pull. A child’s laughing screech interrupted him. A blonde blur of a chit, hardly big enough to manage the stairs, hurtled into the room and crashed into Warrington’s legs, hugging for dear life, and whirling so he stood between her and the door.

Bellona, brandishing a broom, charged in behind the little one and halted instantly at the sight of Warrington.

Rhys took in a breath and instantly understood Wicks’s fascination with the woman. Her face, relaxed in laughter, caught his eyes. He couldn’t look away—no man would consider it.

‘Just sweeping the dust out of the nursery,’ she said to Warrington, lowering the broom while she gingerly moved around him. The child used him as a shield.

Warrington’s hand shot down on to the little girl’s head, hair shining golden in the sunlight, stilling her.

Bellona’s attention centred on the waif. ‘Willa, we do not run in the house. We swim like fishes.’

The child laughed, pulled away from the silent admonishment of her father’s hand on her head, puffed her cheeks out and left the room quickly, making motions of gliding through water.

Warrington cleared his throat before the chase began again. ‘We have a guest, Bellona.’

Rhys saw the moment Bellona became aware of his presence. The broom tensed and for half a second he wondered if she would drop it or turn it into a weapon. Warrington was closer, and Rhys was completely willing to let her pummel him.

She lowered the bristles to the floor, but managed a faint curtsy and said, ‘I did not know we had a visitor.’ Her face became as stiff as the broom handle.

Warrington turned to Rhys.

‘Bellona is... She gets on quite well with the children as you can tell.’ His eyes glanced over to her. ‘But she is not as entranced with tranquillity as her sister is.’

‘I do like the English ways,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I just think my ways are also good.’

‘But my children need to be well mannered at all times.’ Warrington frowned after he spoke.

‘I do adore the paidi. They are gold,’ she said, voice prim and proper. ‘But no little one is well mannered at all times. They have life. It is their treasure. They should spend it well.’

‘They should also know the way to be proper and comport themselves in a lofty manner when they meet such a person as we are privileged to have in our presence.’ He glanced at Rhys. ‘His Grace, Duke of Rolleston. Rescuer of lost puppies, everywhere.’ He turned to Bellona to complete the introduction. ‘Miss Cherroll, my wife’s kind and gentle-spirited youngest sister—’ his brows bumped up as he looked back at Rhys ‘—who has called me a few endearments in her native language that our tutor neglected to teach us, and when her sister translates I fear something is lost in the meaning.’

Her eyes blinked with innocence at Warrington for a moment before she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.

‘I believe the duke wanted to speak with you.’ Warrington walked to her, took the broom and looked at it as if might bite. ‘And I should see about Willa.’

The earl took two long strides to the door. ‘I won’t send a chaperon.’ He smiled at Rhys as he left. ‘You’re on your own.’

Chapter Two

Pleased Warrington had left them alone, Rhys’s attention turned to Bellona. She’d moved a step back from him and stood close to an unlit lamp on a side table. Her eyes remained on the arrow in his hand.

Perhaps he’d been mistaken about her. She might be unsettled.

Bellona nodded towards the arrow. ‘I believe that is mine.’

Rhys grasped the shaft with both hands and snapped the arrow across his knee, breaking the wood in two pieces. Then he held it in her direction.

The straight line of her lips softened. Her shoulders relaxed and she moved just close enough so that he could place the arrow in her hand. Exotic spices lingered in the air around her and he tried to discern if it was the same perfume from a rare plant he’d once noted in a botanist’s collection.

‘Thank you.’ She took the splintered pieces and increased the distance between them. Examining the broken shaft, she said, ‘I feared you would not be so kind as to return it.’

‘You could have injured someone. My gamekeeper.’

She raised her eyes to Rhys. ‘The arrow did what arrows do. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he—’ Bellona dismissed the words. ‘His voice... You should speak with him about glossa—his words.’

‘Leave the poor man alone. He has been on my estate his whole life and feels as much kinship to the land as I do.’

‘A man cannot own land. It is a gift from the heavens to be shared.’

‘For the time being, it is my gift and I control all on it. You upset the gamekeeper.’

She shrugged. ‘He upsets rabbits.’

‘They are invited. You are not. However...’ His next words were about to change that, but he forgot he was speaking when her hand moved.

Flicking up the notched end of the arrow, she brushed the feathery fletching against her face. The arrow stroked her skin. One. Two. Three little brushes. Softness against softness.

His heart pounded blood everywhere around his body except his head.

He remembered where he was, but not what he’d been saying. He looked at her eyes, checking for artifice, wondering if she knew how he reacted to her.

‘I do not know if this is a good idea.’ He spoke barely above a whisper.

‘The traps are a bad idea. Wrong. Thinking you own the earth is not correct.’ She moved her hand to her side, the arrow tip pointed in his direction.

Traps? That problem was easily solved.

‘At the soirée, what did you say to Pottsworth in Greek that was so shocking?’ he asked.

She raised her brows.

‘Never mind.’ He turned away. Walking to the painting, he looked at it. An idyllic scene with a sea in the background. Waves lapped the sand and breezes brought the scent of moisture to him. ‘Are you one of the little girls in the painting?’ He raised his finger, almost touching the long-dried oils. She had to be the youngest one—the urchin had grown into the woman behind him.

‘Miss Cherroll.’ He turned back. ‘Are you the little one in the picture?’

‘It is just a painting. From my homeland.’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘No. You broke my arrow.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ He turned to her and locked his clasped hands behind his back. This intractable woman and his mother would not get on well at all. Such a foolish thought.

‘You do not mean to beg my pardon,’ she said. ‘You just speak it because it is what you have always said.’

‘I’ll buy you a score of arrows to replace this one if you merely promise you will not shoot in the direction of a person. I was making a point.’

She waved a hand his direction. ‘Keep your arrows. I have many of them.’

‘Well, I must be going. You’re not quite as I expected. Thank you for your time. I sincerely regret breaking your arrow.’ He stopped. ‘No, I don’t. However, I will see that more are sent your way. Please be careful with them and do not practise archery on my land.’

She didn’t speak.

He strode to the door. This woman could not reside with his mother. He did not know how he could have imagined such a thing. But he just did not know what to do. He turned back. He could not go out that door.

‘You may visit my land whenever you wish.’ He didn’t recognise his own voice. His words sounded parched to his ears—the same as when he was little more than a youth and requested his first dance from a woman whose eyes glittered with sensual knowledge.

‘I will not shoot near the gamekeeper any more unless he comes too close to me.’ Her tone commanded, but underneath there might have been a waver in it. His thoughts raced ahead.

‘But be aware he is not a nice man,’ she continued. ‘He has killed—he has killed them after taking them from the trap. With his foot.’ Her voice dipped. ‘It is—it is bad. He does not care.’

He turned away so he could concentrate and put his hand on the door frame, sorting his thoughts, listening with his whole body. ‘He said you shot at him.’

‘Yes. I was watching the traps to see if he’d caught anything. I was going to free the animals. But he was early. He knew. He saw me and he walked closer and I thought of the rabbits. The rabbits. What man could do that to another living creature? I could not let him near me. I shot at the ground between us. He stopped.’

‘It is his job to watch for poachers.’ He slid his hand from the wood and moved just enough to hold her in his line of vision.

‘Nothing should be trapped like that.’

He asked the other question again. ‘What did you say to Pottsworth?’

‘The man at the soirée?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was in the gardens because I did not want to be with the people. I heard him speak to another man and say I was ripe for his hands. I only told him what would happen if he touched me, although I did not say it pleasantly. I knew he could understand my language. Warrington had told us that most men at the soirée had been tutored in Greek.’

‘I have heard that your parents are no longer with us,’ Rhys asked, tactfully changing the subject.

She touched a finger to the tip of the arrow. ‘My mana is not alive. I miss her still. I miss her more now than when she died, because she has been gone from me longer.’

He stepped closer, into the whiff of her perfume—until he realised it wasn’t only the exotic scent around her, but that of fresh bread. His eyes snapped to hers.

The arrow tip followed his movement, but he didn’t care about that.

‘Have you been in the...cooking area?’ he asked.

She waved her palm the barest bit. ‘The staff here works hard. They do not need me watching over them.’

He edged forward and she stepped back. ‘You have a dusting of white on your face,’ he said.

She reached up, brushing, but missed it.

A duke simply did not reach out and touch a woman’s face, particularly upon their first proper introduction. But he did. Warm, buttery sensations flowed inside him. His midsection vibrated, but it was with the outward pressure against his waistcoat. If he looked down, he knew he’d see the tip of the arrow pressed there again. But the broken arrow wasn’t so long and it connected their bodies too closely. His blood pounded hot and fast. Blast. This was not good. He’d been too long in the country where he had to take such care because his movements were watched so closely. He needed to get to London soon and find a woman.

She smiled. ‘I use the arrows as my chaperon.’

‘Perhaps a maid would be better instead?’ He reached the slightest bit to nudge the arrow away, but stopped before connecting with the wood. If his hand touched hers, that would be more than he wanted to deal with.

He moved back, freeing himself in more ways than one, and examined his fingers while rubbing the white powder between thumb and forefinger. He was fairly certain it was flour or some such. Something one dusted on the top of cakes or used in producing meals.

‘You have been in a kitchen.’

‘I—’ Her chin jutted. ‘I do not...visit the kitchen. Often.’

He shrugged. ‘I do not mind. It just surprises me.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You shot at my gamekeeper—I don’t see why you’d have a problem with going into the servants’ area.’

He wasn’t in the mood to complain about her at the moment. But he must keep his thoughts straight. She had put a weapon against his waistcoat. She ran through the woods, tormenting a gamekeeper. She’d traipsed in the kitchen with the servants, chased a child with a broom in the sitting room and probably would not be able to respond quietly in the bedchamber as a decent woman should. He clamped his teeth together.

This woman was as untamed as the creatures she freed. She might be a relation of Warrington’s, but one always had an errant relative who did not do as they should.

‘I—’ She stepped back. And now the broken arrow rested against her bodice. ‘I cannot let the rabbits be trapped. I cannot.’

‘I suppose I understand.’ He did understand. More than she thought. She had a weakness for rabbits and right now his weakness was for soft curves and compassionate eyes. He must clear his head. No matter what it took, he must clear his head.

‘I would like to reassure you,’ he said, ‘that the rabbits will soon be holding soirées among the parsnips and their smiling teeth will be green-stained from all the vegetables they harvest. The traps are to be removed. You do not have to check my lands. No more traps.’

‘Thank you.’ She nodded. ‘It is a relief.’

‘In return, I would like very much for you to have tea with my mother tomorrow,’ he said. He heard the youth still in his voice. That strange sound. Too much sincerity for the simple question. ‘Please consider it. My mother is very alone right now,’ he quickly added.

She moved, still grasping the arrow pieces, but her hand rested on the spine of the sofa. She studied his face. ‘I don’t... The English customs...’

She was going to say no and he couldn’t let her. He had to explain.

‘My mother will not know you are arriving and I will summon her once you are there. Otherwise she may not leave her room.’ His chuckle was dry. ‘She likely will not leave her chamber, unless I insist. But as you understand what it is like to miss a person you care for, I would appreciate your spending a few moments speaking with the duchess. Perhaps she will feel less alone.’

She didn’t speak.

‘My brother has passed recently. My father died almost two years ago, soon after my older sister and her new husband perished in a fire while visiting friends. My mother is becoming less herself with each passing day. She misses her family more with each hour.’ He controlled his voice, removing all emotion. ‘She is trapped—by memories—and only feels anger and self-pity.’

‘I will visit your mana.’ She spoke matter-of-factly. ‘And if she does not wish to leave her chamber, I do not mind at all. I will visit her there.’

He turned, nodding, and with a jerk of his chin indicated the arrow in her hand.

‘Would you really hurt me?’ he asked.

Something flickered behind her eyes. Some memory he could never see.

‘I hope I could,’ she said. ‘I tell myself every day that I will be strong enough.’

‘You wish to kill someone?’

She shook her head, tousled hair falling softly, and for a moment she didn’t look like the woman she was, but reminded him of a lost waif. ‘No. I wish to be strong enough.’

‘Have you ever...hurt anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I know of no woman who has ever killed a man, except my grandmother, Gigia.’

He waited.

‘A man, from a ploio. A ship. He was not good. He killed one of the women from our island and hurt another one almost to her death. Gigia gave him drink. Much drink, and he fell asleep. He should not have fallen asleep. Gigia said it was no different than killing a goat, except the man was heavier. My mana and uncle were there and they buried him. I do not think the men from the ship cared about losing him. They did not hunt for him long. Gigia gave them wine and we helped them search.’

Rhys took a breath. He’d invited this woman into his home, where his mother would meet her. This woman who seemed no more civilised than the rabbits she wished to protect and yet, he wanted to bury his face against her skin and forget.

‘I see.’ He frowned, repressing his notice of her as a woman. He certainly did not need to be noting the insignificant things about her.

‘From your face, I think you do.’ Instantly, her eyes pinched into a tilted scowl, her nose wrinkled. She mocked him. His mouth opened the barest bit. Yes, she’d jested.

‘Miss Cherroll,’ he spoke, beginning his reprimand, holding himself to the starched demeanour his father had used, one strong enough that even a royal would take notice of it. ‘Perhaps my mother could also be of some guidance to you.’

Lashes fluttered. A dash of sadness tinged her words, but the chin did not soften. ‘I am beyond repair.’

Bits of words fluttered through his mind, but none found their way to his lips. He took a moment appraising her, then caught himself, tamping down the sparking embers.

This would not be acceptable. He had survived his sister’s death. He had survived his father’s death. Geoff was gone. The duchess was failing. Rhys’s vision tunnelled around him, leaving only images from memory. He would take his own heart from his chest and wring it out with his two hands before he let it close to another person.

He turned his body from her with more command than he would ever unleash on the ribbons from a horse’s bridle.

‘I did not mean to anger you so...’ Her voice barely rose above the drumming in his ears.

‘I am merely thinking,’ he said.

‘You must stop, then. It’s not agreeing with you.’

‘I think you are the one not agreeing with me.’

‘So it has never happened before?’

‘Not recently.’

‘An oversight?’ Wide eyes.

‘I can hardly believe you and the countess are sisters.’

‘If you think we are brothers, then I do not know what to say.’

‘You are—’ He gave up. If she could use that same spirit to release his mother’s mind from the memories snaring her, it would be worth the risk. He had no other options.

Chapter Three

Bellona took the carriage to the duke’s house, frowning each time the vehicle jostled her. Darting through the woods would have been so much easier, but when the gamekeeper’s eyes had rested on her the last time, a drop of spittle had escaped his lips when he’d smiled at her. The past had flooded back. She’d thought to put the memories behind her, but they’d returned like a wave, currents underneath tugging at her, trying to pull her to death.

Even now, looking out of the window, she could imagine a face peering at her from behind each tree. The eyes reflecting dark, evil thoughts, or no thoughts at all. Knowledge returned of looking into the pupils and seeing nothing human in a face she’d once seen innocently. Nothing behind those eyes which reasoned or thought, but only the same blankness from the face of an animal intent on devouring its prey.

She’d heard the tales of people being fed to lions. Telling the lion to think about the rightness of not clamping its teeth around her neck would do no good. Reminding the beast that she was merely wishing to live out her life wouldn’t change anything. The lion might appear calm, but it would be thinking of only how to get a straighter lunge.

Bellona had known Stephanos before he killed—watched him dance and laugh and work as he’d grown older. Nothing had indicated how one day he would look at her with the harshness of death seeping from him like muck bubbling over the side of a pot left on the fire too long and too hot to pull away with bare hands.