For Love of the Duke(13)

His jaw set in a hard angle. If his friend believed Jasper had returned to London to rejoin the living and take part in any of the winter festivities, he was to be disappointed. Outside of his own solitary presence, Jasper had little intention of intermingling with any members of Society.

He picked up the book of poetry at the edge of his desk, and fanned the pages. His friend thought to give him poetry of the romantics. Either Guilford was a lack-wit, or foolishly unaware that the last book Jasper would ever pick up was the drivel of romantic poets spit upon the written page. There had been a time when he had enjoyed the words of Blake and Byron immensely. Not any longer. Not since life had taught him the perils of love.

He tossed the gift aside. Since that night, he still allowed himself to read, but his interests had changed a good deal. A hard smile formed on his lips. And certainly the last thing he’d care to read were books of romance and love.

Jasper strode over to the table filled with crystal decanters. He pulled the stoppered out and splashed several fingerfuls into a glass. If he was to remain in London, he had little intention of resuming his previous way of living.

The sooner Guilford realized that, the better off they all would be.





~5~



“Oh, my goodness, Katherine, will you not speak of it?”

Katherine sat at the window seat that overlooked the back gardens. Her sister knelt at her side, her eyes fairly pleading for details Katherine did not want to give.

She hugged her arms around her waist as the remembered terror of that day came flooding back. “There is nothing to speak of, Anne.”

Her sister sat back in a flounce of skirts. “Hmph,” she muttered. “You nearly drowned.”

“Because I was at that silly fair.”

“For which I’m ever so sorry,” Anne continued. “If you’d only stayed with me while I shopped…”

Katherine glared her into silence.

Her normally loquacious sister had sense enough to let that thought go unfinished.

Katherine returned her attention to the grounds below, and thought of the moment when her water-logged skirts had tugged her downward. And then he’d appeared. A kind of angel rescuer—more of a dark angel, but an angel nonetheless. The Duke of Bainbridge may be an unsmiling, boorish lout, but he had saved her, and for that he would forever have her gratitude.

A smile played about her lips. Whether he wanted it or not. She suspected the last thing the dark, cold duke would ever care for was warm expressions of gratefulness.

“Will you at least speak of the duke?” Anne pressed.

“No,” Katherine said automatically. She studied the snowflakes as they swirled past the windowpane. She’d not speak of him. She’d resolved to remember him for his rescue but beyond that, to bury thoughts of his harsh coldness.

“Mother said—”

“Anne,” she warned.

“Mother said a scandal surrounds him.” She leaned closed, and braced her hands upon the edge of the window seat. “She says they called him the Mad Duke for several years, and then Society ceased talking of him. Said he disappeared to the ruins of his castle.”

Katherine fisted the fabric of her skirts. She told herself she’d not feed her sister’s salacious appetite for gossip. She told herself to not ask. The Duke of Bainbridge’s business was his own. And yet…

“What happened to him?” The words tumbled from her lips.

From the clear pane of glass she detected her sister’s slight shrug. “Some say he murdered his wife.”

Katherine gasped. “Anne,” she chided. “Do not speak so.” She thought of the veneer of icy hardness that clung to him, the apathy in his pale green eyes. Such a man was surely capable of violence, and yet, that same man had risked his own life to save hers. Those were not the actions of a gentleman capable of murder.

Anne rose amidst a flutter of pale, pink skirts. She, however, appeared to have identified Katherine as a captivated audience. “That is all that is known,” she said, sounding like a child who’d just been told they are not to receive any plum pudding for Christmas dessert. She settled her hands upon her hips. “How can a man have been said to have murdered his wife, and no one knows any details of the night?”

“That is enough, Anne.” She’d not condone such gossip.

“Hmph, very well, then. You are a bore today, Katherine, and I merely sought to provide you company.”

“You can join me on my outing to the book shop.”

An inelegant snort escaped her sister. “Don’t be foolish.” She glanced out the window. “You’d brave snow to go—.”

“I’d hardly call it snow. It is merely a few flakes.”