Son of a Duke Read online

  "I think I am the lucky one." Her voice lost its boldness, the words flowing delicately from her lips, almost as if she could not be saying the words aloud.

  "How are his flowers coming?" Nathan found he liked this Miss Quinton best and tried to keep her around a little longer. "And you do realize he talks like he is eighty instead of nine, do you not?"

  "His flowers are coming along wonderfully, and yes, I know he talks like he's eighty." She washed out the rag in the basin. "That is probably my fault." She smiled, or was it a smirk?

  "Yes, probably."

  They fell into silence then, mostly because Nathan could not think of a damn thing to say. Too many things were crowding in at once, so many questions he wanted to ask her, so many things he wanted to learn. He shifted in the seat, and his back scraped along the shape of his pistol in his greatcoat. And he suddenly remembered why he was here, alone with her, a slice across his shoulder from a bullet that was meant to kill him.

  "Miss Quinton-"

  Her eyebrows went up. "Oh, we are back to Miss Quinton. This must be the serious portion of the evening." The clock suddenly chimed two above the fireplace. "Or should I say morning?" she amended.

  Nathan was not sure he liked all the eyebrow raising. It was normally he who did the raising. "I need to discuss with you some...things."

  She finished with the washing and moved to get the bottle of clear stuff from the table. He sat straighter in the chair.

  "Sometimes, Mr. Black, I wonder where you learned to speak. You are just so profound at times."

  The woman's wit was either going to drive him insane or-well, yes, it would probably just drive him insane.

  "My father, I guess, mostly taught me how to speak." Her eyebrow went up. "He is a duke," Nathan finished.

  Nora froze. Nathan really had not believed it possible for her to go whiter under all the rice powder, but her skin definitely went down a few notches on the color scale. The blood must have drained from her entire head. He leaned forward just in case he would have to catch her in a faint.

  "I beg your pardon...my lord. I had not realized." She ducked her head to work the cork out of the bottle.

  "I am not a lord." He closed both of his hands over hers to get her attention. She jerked once, but he thought that was mostly from the sudden contact and not from an attempt to get away from him. He waited until she looked up at him. "I am the result of a burst of excitement, if you understand my meaning. I am no lord and never will be." He released her, but she did not move. He pointed at the bottle. "Do you need help with that?"

  She looked down at her hands, looking as though she was not really certain how they had become wrapped around the bottle. "No, thank you." She pulled the cork, making a loud pop cut the air.

  ~

  She was actually going to have to touch him now. There was nothing else left to be done. A large cleaning rag had been barrier enough, but to apply the medicine, she would need to make contact with his skin again.

  Nora felt the bile rise in her throat, her lungs constricting any passage of air.

  She focused on a spot above his shoulder where the fabric of his great coat blended through the intricacies of the fabric of the armchair. The firelight glinted on the threads, and she let her eyes lose focus, wallowing in the undefined state of not seeing.

  Eleanora Quinton could do this. She had left Aunt Martha's at the young age of seventeen and made a way for herself in London with no reference and no one to help her. She could dab some medicine on the arm of a Bow Street runner. Surely, she could. She had survived far worst.

  She watched her hand drift in front of her, wondered as it moved of its own volition. The tips of her middle fingers brushed his skin first. He was warm and strangely soft. She wondered why this astonished her as she did not have anything else on which to base an assumption of how his skin would feel. It was not as if she made a practice of going about touching strange men. Or any men, for that matter. But still, she had expected him to feel...tougher, if that were the correct word.

  There was something about his presence that just suggested strength and absoluteness, no room for yielding or tenderness. But when she touched him, she felt something entirely different from the aura she exuded.

  He stared intently into the fire; his eyes squinted, focusing on the flames. She wondered what he thought. She was finding Nathan Black to be an odd man, if not particularly in his actions but in his moods. He often swung from one end of the pendulum to the other, keeping her guessing as to what he would say next. He could be charming at the beginning of a sentence and serious at the end. It was disconcerting.

  She took the moment to actually look at him, really see what he was made of. She had never studied a man before, picked him apart piece by piece, put the pieces back together to see what they made. Men were never very interesting to her, less so after.... Well, after. But this one was suddenly drawing her attention, for what reason she did not know. He was just like all the rest, perhaps a little more charming, a little more...friendly. Perhaps it had been the occasion of their meeting, something in the suspense and tension of murder that made her take notice of him. But she doubted that.

  The pull was intrinsic. She could feel that much. There was something in Nathan Black that spoke to her. Her stomach churned, not wanting in the least to find out what it was.

  She stepped back, lifting the alcohol soaked rag from his shoulder. Nathan was still stared at the fire, not noticing that she had moved. His dark hair fell across his forehead. The light did not touch the recesses of his eyes, making her wonder what color they were in the firelight.

  He was so tall and broad, that she had not dared look at him before. She had looked past him, over his shoulder, making it appear as though she looked through him. But looking at him now, she found he was quite...pleasing in his make up. His shoulders easily spanned the width of the chair back, and his large hands rested casually on either arm of the chair. His legs were stretched before him, too long for him to sit comfortably without stretching them thusly. His clothes were of fine quality but not quite as fine as that of a gentleman of the realm. But he had said he was the son of a duke. An illegitimate son. The notion opened many questions, but she did not dare to ask a single one of them.

  His mouth was relaxed, tiny lines framing it. She had a sudden urge to run her fingertips over his lips, across his jaw, and along his cheekbones, to feel the scrape of his skin along hers. She wanted to touch more of him, see if all of his pieces felt the same as the skin of his arm. She wanted to know what it would feel like for him to touch her.

  She stepped back so quickly she smacked into the table she had set the medicine box on. The whole thing shook, sending the lantern light swinging recklessly across the room. Nora grabbed for the latern first. The last thing she needed tonight was to set the study on fire. The other clean rags fell off the table to the floor; the lid of the medicine box tottered shut with a snap. Steadying the lantern, she turned her head, knowing Nathan had heard the racket.

  He had turned his head as well, but otherwise looked exactly the same, completely relaxed and calm.

  "Skirts," Nora said, "They tend to get in the way."

  "I can only imagine." His voice was soft with the slightest infliction of mockery.

  She turned her head back to the lantern and bit her lip. She was slowly losing her mind, assuming she had not lost it already. First, she wanted to run her fingers all over his face and then suddenly when he had teased her, she had wondered what it would feel like to kiss him.

  "Are you finished with me?" Nathan said behind her.

  Nora bent and retrieved the fallen rags before turning back to him. "Yes, you will be fine."

  But she very much doubted she would be equally as fine. This man was doing things to her she had never imagined any man could. And then he stood, and her stomach made a motion inside of her that had never occurred before. He towered over her, and it was not fear that she felt. It was an inexplicable tightening, an uncon
trolled spasm deep within her.

  "Excellent," he said and stepped toward her.

  She would have stepped back, but that would have meant running into the table again. She knew her mouth had fallen open, and she probably had meant to scream, but it stuck in her throat. But no, that did not feel right. She was not afraid of him any longer. She was the very opposite. Something about him pulled at her, wanting him to come closer, wanting him to touch her.

  And then he did, and the air rushed from her lungs.

  Nathan reached for her. No, he was reaching around her, and the sudden feeling of loss that the near touch sent through her left her reeling. He picked up a clean rag and dipped it in the basin of water. Wringing out the excess water, he looked back at her.

  She could see his eyes now, brilliant blue even in the soft light cast from the fire. The moving light played over his features like moonlight across the even surface of a lake. The planes and crevices invited her in, begged her fingers to explore. She did not know what was happening to her, but she did not want it to stop.

  And then Nathan spoke.

  "My turn," he said and finally touched her.

  ~

  Nathan thought she looked absolutely terrified. But there was the slightest softness around her mouth that made him doubt the validity of his observation. It was not terror. It was unwanted curiosity he saw masking her features.

  She wanted to see what he was going to do next, and he was not leaving tonight without seeing what her face really looked like. He wanted the rice powder off of her skin. He wanted to see Eleanora Quinton for what she really looked like. He wanted to see her.

  He gripped her shoulder first, and she did not flinch. She did not move at all under his touch. He swiped the wet rag along the line of her jaw, making a streak in the rice powder. He unearthed the curve of her cheek, the line of her nose, the soft angle of her jaw. The scar running from her eyebrow to the corner of her jaw became paler as the powder was wiped clean from it. He pulled the rag across her forehead, his fingertips inadvertently brushing the softness of her hair. Finished, he tipped her face up with a hand under her chin and studied her face in the lantern light.

  The scar was more pronounced now, but it was not sinister or revolting. If anything, he simply wondered what had caused it. He traced it with a single fingertip, running his finger down the side of her face. He watched her. He watched the breath slowly slip from her slightly open mouth, saw the rise and fall of her chest. He felt the tightening in his stomach as he drank in the nearness of her.

  And she had freckles. He could not have been more delighted. They dusted her nose and sprayed her cheeks, adding just a touch of color to her pale face. There were dark smudges under her eyes, making them look rather sunken, skeleton like, and he let his fingers run across her skin to one of the bruised patches. She blinked when his fingers came close to her eye, but she did not move. His gaze fell to her lips. They had taken on color and dimension without all the powder surrounding them, dimming them beyond recognition. He let his fingers drift down, running along her jaw to cup her chin once more.

  And then he stepped back.

  Cold air rushed between them, and he ardently wished he had stepped closer instead of back. It had already been a long and trying night, and from what he knew of Nora and what he had discovered of her this night, he knew she had already been through enough. Her emotions must have been straining even if she did not visibly show it on her person. He needed to give her some room, so she could adjust to his being there. Being in her life.

  When he had started out that night, he had not thought it would end like this. He had been going out to complete an objective for the War Office. That was all. A rather typical day for him, but a rather typical end it was not. He knew he was not going to forget Eleanora Quinton, and he knew he was not going to let her slip from his life.

  He looked at her, with the defiant set of her chin, the dusting of freckles, the parted lips that begged for another touch, and he took another step back.

  "Franklin Archer is a man suspected of treason," he heard himself say moving over to the fire. "I was given the task of eliminating him before he could pass more secrets to the French. It was to look like a revenge killing. That is why it was staged to occur tonight at the ball. I regret the disturbance this has caused you and your staff. The powers that decide these things do not always think on the repercussions of their actions. They only think of the best way to resolve an unfavorable situation."

  Nora did not speak. He turned slightly to look at her. She had not moved from her spot by the lantern, and her face had not lost its sheen of curiosity. He needed to finish what he had to say and leave. He was already feeling the strain of keeping his emotions in tact. If was he alone with her any longer, he could not be held responsible for what would occur. And something in the back of his mind made him feel disgusted with his own urgings, and he checked himself.

  "It is unwise for you to share this information with anyone, and I advise you to think of another story to tell the lord and lady of the house. Knowledge of this information could prove deadly if discovered. Do you understand, Miss Quinton?"

  He had been watching her, and at the last of his words, he watched the delicious spell that had swept over her break away and dissolve into the air. He wished it back almost instantly, but he knew it was for the best.

  "I understand, Mr. Black."

  Her voice was neither that of the demanding Miss Quinton he had met in the ball just hours before nor that of the mother who directed her son so carefully. He suspected this was the Eleanora Quinton that stayed hidden in the depths of the infallible housekeper in an ardent need to feel safe.

  Nathan was suddenly very tired and let his gaze drop down to the fire in the hearth.

  "Thank you, Nathan," she said then, and he looked quickly back up. "Thank you," she continued, "For explaining the situation."

  He nodded and reached for his great coat. It was past time for him to leave.

  "I only regret that I cannot tell you more," he said, but then he paused.

  "Nora, I am uncertain as to what will happen next with this situation. There may be an issue with you knowing about Franklin Archer. I will not know until I speak with my colleagues."

  Nora only nodded, and the simple response made him want to take her into his arms, close her within his grasp and keep her safe from anything the world wanted to do to her. But he did not have the luxury of being in such a position to protect anyone. He never really had.

  "I will be in touch as soon as I learn of what is to be done next, but I want you to understand that I do not know when that will be or what it will entail. I apologize now for this could cause an upset in your life."

  Nathan recalled the many innocent people who had gotten in the way of War Office business and were suddenly transported to obscure places like the colony of Rhode Island or whatever such thing it called itself now. He wanted Nora to be able to grasp the gravity of the situation without frightening her.

  She nodded again, and he moved toward the door. He had almost made it to the hallway when a question made him stop.

  "Nora, do you have any family?"

  Her face revealed nothing as she replied, "It is just Samuel and I."

  He had suspected as much, and he wondered both why he had asked the question and why the answer had made him sad.

  He nodded. "Thank you for your corporation, Miss Quinton. I bid you good night."

  He turned once more to the door, but this time continued through it before the enticing image of Miss Eleanora Quinton could get the best of him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nathan turned left at the end of the drive heading toward the park. The air was crisp, making the part of his face exposed above the collar of his coat sting with each step. His footfalls were silent on the pavement, the fabric of his greatcoat eerily swooshing in the stillness. In the distance, a carriage passed on a cross street, the horses hooves striking the road in a syncopated rhythm.


  He reached the cross street and turned left, heading up along the park. It would have been quicker to cut through the park, but even he was not brave enough to go through the park at night. Even with a gun. Who knew what could be lurking in there. Rapists, robbers, or worse, snakes.

  The houses lining the streets were dark except for a small glowing window here and there in one of the upper floors. Members of society readying for bed after long evenings spent at balls, musicales and soirees. Wives brushing out their hair; husbands checking the children one more time. He stopped and stared up at one such window. The shadow of a woman passed across it, and the window went dark. He wondered suddenly where it was Nora and Samuel slept in Gregenden House. Was it a nice room? Was it drafty? Did they have an adequate bed to sleep in?

  He pulled his collar up higher and continued down the street.

  His father's house stuck out amongst the others, and it struck Nathan that it looked oddly welcoming, even at this early hour of the morning. There was light in the study, pouring out into the small space between the house and the one next to it. Alec had probably relayed what had happened to his father, and hopefully, they were getting started on what to do about the situation of mistaken identity. It was not everyday that Nathan shot the wrong person. One slip could not be held against him, especially when the men in question looked so very similar to one another.

  He climbed the steps and opened the door without knocking. Most likely the servants were all in bed, and he did not want to wake them by knocking. He remembered what Nora had said about the butler, what was his name? Hawkins. It would be very inconsiderate of him to wake the servants at this hour when he was certain he could open the door himself.

  He stepped into the hall, closing the door softly. The light flickered as wind shifted from the open door. He put the lock in place and stepped over to pick up the lit candle Jane had probably left for him. He cupped his hand to protect the light and made his way down the hall.