For Love of the Duke(20)

He was the bloody Duke of Bainbridge. The Mad Duke, as Society referred to him. He did not wax poetic about the color of ladies’ eyes. He had, once upon a lifetime ago, when he’d courted Lydia. But not any longer. He drew on her name, and closed his eyes momentarily. He froze.

Wind whipped around him, harsh and punishing, and he embraced the sting of the winter storm.

Jasper clenched his eyes tight, willing her precious face back into focus. Her eyes. They’d been blue. But the exact shade, he could no longer envision with his imagining.

As if in mockery of his efforts, Lady Katherine’s brown eyes, filled with fire and passion, flitted through his mind.

Jasper shook his head and continued walking.

He could explain away his fascination with Lady Katherine. She, unlike the lords and ladies who’d had the misfortune of crossing his miserable path, appeared wholly uncowed by him. Rather, she seemed to find an unholy delight in tormenting him.

Since Lydia’s death, nay, since he’d killed her, people had been wise to avoid him, and what was more, fear him. People didn’t dare speak to him. And they certainly didn’t tease him.

But Lady Katherine did.

Yes, he could explain away his fascination with the young lady. He could not, however, explain what had possessed him to purchase that damned volume of Wordsworth’s and run after her like some callow youth.

Over the years, Jasper had embraced the stark coldness that filled him. For a man without a heart could never again know the mind-numbing pain of losing one’s wife and child.

Then Lady Katherine had fallen into the Thames River and upended his icy world.

Seeming incapable of guile she wore her every emotion upon her face like an artist’s palate of colored paints. The lady’s outrage, her fury, the amusement, hope, all of it, etched at upon the graceful lines of her heart-shaped face. She reminded him of the fresh innocence he’d possessed, of a simpler time, of the joy he’d known, before his world had fallen apart.

And it scared the bloody hell out of him.

At long last, Jasper arrived at his white stucco townhouse with the cold brick front that suited the bleakness of his life. He stomped up the steps.

As if on cue, the door opened, and Jasper sailed through the entrance. He shrugged out of his cloak, and tossed it to a waiting footman.

“Your Grace,” the butler greeted, with a deep bow.

Jasper gave a curt nod in greeting and continued onward down the long corridors, through the length of the house. He paused outside his office door a moment, and then entered.

Jasper kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. A panicky sensation gripped his chest. He counted to ten, and when it didn’t help, he counted again. Since Lydia’s death he’d found that focusing on those small, succinct numbers diverted his thoughts away from any unwelcome thoughts or emotions.

He crossed over to the rose-inlaid mahogany table and picked up a decanter of brandy. He poured the amber contents to the rim of a glass, and carried it over to the window. Jasper stared out into the intensifying storm, the flakes swirling outside the windowpane. He took a slow sip.

Coming to London had been the height of foolishness. He’d allowed Guilford to cajole him into paying a visit to his townhouse. As most members of the ton had left for their countryseats to celebrate the Christmastide season, Jasper would be spared the pointed glances and snide whispers as they gossiped about the Mad Duke. Ultimately, he’d been too much a coward to face the ugly remembrances that lived within the castle walls.

A knock sounded on his office door.

“Enter,” he called, his gaze fixed in the streets below.

The door opened.

Then the soft shuffle of steps. “Your Grace, a package arrived for you.”

Jasper stiffened.

A package?

“Your Grace?” the butler asked hesitantly.

“Leave it on my desk.” And get the hell out. The words screamed inside his head but he remained silent. He stared down into the contents of his brandy. He didn’t want any blasted company this day. He blinked as the rich hue put him in mind of a fiery pair of brown eyes. “Christ,” he hissed. Jasper downed his brandy in one long swallow, welcoming the trail it blazed down his throat.

He set the empty glass down upon a nearby table, and looked over to the package on his desk.

The fabric, dampened from fresh melted snow, familiar.

Jasper hesitated, and then strode over to the desk. He picked up the package and undid the velvet ribbon that held the fabric together.

The Excursion

He fanned the pages of the book

A note slipped out.

The Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge, cold, heartless bastard he’d become after Lydia’s death wouldn’t care about the blasted contents of the letter. That Jasper would have crossed to the hearth and hurled an unread note into the flames.