For Love of the Duke(65)

Well, he’d not allow her to play wounded soul any further. She’d suggested a marriage of convenience. In her discussion, she’d been practical in all matters pertaining to a possible match between them. Now she’d act the injured party for an agreement she’d willingly entered into.

His bootsteps marked a staccato path upon the floor.

Jasper took the stairs to her rooms two at a time. His long stride made short work of the space between them. He reached for the handle of her door, and then paused, remembering himself.

In spite of her bold spirit and fiery eyes, Katherine was still an innocent, proper, young lady. If he were to simply storm her chambers like the lords of old, then she’d only further retreat into this protective indignant state she’d created for herself.

So he knocked.

And knocked again.

And…

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

Jasper jerked at the lapels of his double-breasted jacket. He was the bloody Duke of Bainbridge. He made for the handle yet again, but stopped and forced himself to draw in an even breath.

“Katherine?”

Silence.

Jasper turned the handle and entered.

His gaze scoured the room. The immaculately folded bed indicated she’d risen some time ago.

With a scowl, Jasper turned back around.

He cursed.

“Christ, Wrinkleton, don’t you know one mustn’t sneak up on a man? What is it?”

Wrinkleton inclined his head. “My apologies, Your Grace,” Though in Jasper’s estimation, the butler hardly sounded anything but apologetic. “But Her Grace is not here.”

“Not here?” Jasper repeated, knowing he must sound like a perfect lack-wit.

“She has gone out, Your Grace.”

Gone out.

Gone out?

Surely he’d heard the man wrong. Jasper glanced over to the windows and scowled. The snow continued to fall in earnest. What madness possessed his young wife to go out in such weather?

Then he thought of their first fateful encounter. Should he expect any different in the woman who’d forsaken a chaperone and braved Society’s censure to take part in the festivities of the Frost Fair?

“Yes, that is correct, Your Grace. She’s gone out,” Wrinkleton said in slow, exaggerated tones.

Jasper narrowed his eyes upon the old, family servant. The man had known Jasper since Jasper had been tormenting his tutors, and running the servants ragged with his antics throughout the castle. Otherwise, he’d hardly tolerate such insolence, in anyone…except, Wrinkleton.

The sparkle in the other man’s gaze said he knew as much, too.

“When?” Jasper said in crisp tones.

Wrinkleton scratched at his brow. “I believe an hour or so, Your Grace.”

“An hour?”

Jasper turned on his heel and strode with furious speed through the halls, down the stairs, and…staggered to a halt within the foyer. His gaze collided with the tapestries upon the walls—the exposed embroideries. A flash of blinding fury clouded his vision. He searched around for his butler. “Wrinkleton, what the bloody hell is the meaning of this?”

Jasper’s booming question resounded off the stone walls, and echoed throughout the house.

Wrinkleton continued his slow, very slow descent down the stairs. A footman hurried forward, his gaze directed at the floor. He held out Jasper’s cloak and hat.

Jasper grabbed the items and the young man hurried off. He jammed his hat on his head.

The butler scratched his brow. “What is the meaning of what, Your Grace?”

Jasper closed his eyes and counted to ten, praying to a God he’d ceased to believe in, for a modicum of patience for his servant. He opened his eyes. “The. Tapestries. That. Hang. From. The. Wall.”

“Ahh, those,” Wrinkleton said, and there was that little glimmer of merriment firmly back in his cloudy blue eyes.

“Yes, those,” Jasper snapped, and then remembered himself. He was being a churlish bastard. It was hardly the other man’s fault that…

“Her Grace and I thought to remove them earlier this morn.”

So it would appear it had been the old servant’s fault.

And what was more…

Katherine’s.

“Where is she?” Jasper snarled, feeling like some kind of untamed beast. He tossed his cloak over his shoulders.

“She is nearby, Your Grace.”

Jasper blinked. “Nearby.” Oh, how he wished he was a bigger bastard for he’d gladly sack Wrinkleton in that moment…if he didn’t feel this blasted sense of devotion to the old servant.

“Nearby,” Wrinkleton repeated with an annoying amount of humor in that word. He walked over to the door and pulled it open. A faint gust of wind caught the snow, and sent flakes blowing inside, where they landed in small piles upon the floor. “I venture you should find her somewhere near the end of the drive, atop the hilly knoll with the cluster of evergreens.”