Duke Takes All (The Duke's Secret, #3), page 5
How wonderful it would be to no longer have to pretend civility or feign that she did not know the extent her brother was willing to traverse to seize her funds.
In the mix of the male voices, Abbot interjected. The firm yet surprisingly sympathetic butler murmured on the other side of the wall.
Now was the time! Now, Abbot would fetch her and she would enter the salon like a dramatic heroine and her brother would leave her be forever.
The tension was immense. For she had waited for this moment for far too long.
The door to the library opened without a sound. Abbot leaned through the door opening, fixed his gaze upon hers with the utmost warning, and pointedly gave a shake of his head. He then mouthed the word. “Stay.”
Her blood ran cold at that. For something must have occurred to have changed the duke’s plan.
She began to step forward but Abbot’s face tensed as if such an action could cause disaster. So, she froze and nodded. “Stay,” she mouthed in return.
He nodded again then quietly shut the door.
The anxious exhilaration she’d felt just a moment before vanished under a deep dread.
She glanced about the formidable room, desperate to distract herself. But she could not take in the thousands of leather-bound books arranged with such care upon the cherry wood shelves. That, in and of itself, was indicative of her sudden distress.
No, her ears strained with every moment to hear some piece of the conversation which might explain what was amiss. She could discern nothing, no matter how she tried.
Perhaps, she was not safe at all. Perhaps, it had been the gravest illusions to believe so.
What if her brother had convinced the duke she was mistaken? Or nothing but a silly chit of a girl. Raventon did not seem like a man easily dissuaded. But he was a man, and men did tend to believe each other.
Still, she girded herself and shoved aside such a thought. Raventon had, so far, proved an ally and his fierce understanding of the vulnerability of her sex could not be easily dismissed.
The conversation in the other room ended.
More waiting. Was her life to be nothing but waiting now? It did feel thus.
The door began to open and she tensed, as though awaiting a verdict from the High Court.
Raventon entered, his beautiful face hard. His dark hair shone like a raven’s wing in the late morning light.
Without a word, he closed the door behind him. His long, strong fingers lingered on the golden handle.
“Speak if ye please,” she urged, her voice thick with barely concealed fear.
Slowly, Raventon turned to face her and his eyes glistened like granite in the rain. Hard yet bright. “It is worse than you led me to understand.”
His deep voice cut through the room, a blade through the air.
“How could it possibly be worse?” she demanded, her hands outstretched as she tried to make sense of his claim. “Did he try to insist I was mistaken? Did he—”
“He has had you diagnosed by a doctor,” the duke cut in, his voice rich and hard, determined.
She stilled. He couldn’t possibly be correct. No, she didn’t fully understand his intimation. Surely, the brother she’d once loved so well wouldn’t. . . couldn’t. . . she shook her head, feeling as though she’d been struck. “I beg yer pardon.”
He leveled her with an unyielding stare, one meant to make her understand the severity of the situation. “A doctor has diagnosed you as a danger to yourself.”
She laughed abruptly, a brittle sound. Still, she was desperate to believe that her brother couldn’t descend so far. For once, he had held her hand. Once, they had romped across the Highland hills together as small children and witnessed all the wonders that were to be seen. “Ye jest.”
He stared at her, unblinking.
Diana swallowed, suddenly afraid she might be sick. Her stomach spun. “Ye are in earnest.”
“I am deadly earnest,” he confirmed. “Your brother intends to have you committed. Something far easier than murder.”
Her throat closed and the room seemed to swing.
There was a long pause and only the chiming of the mantel clock filled it before Raventon said softly, “He said your mother was mad.”
She shook her head wildly again, desperate to make it all stop. Words wouldn’t come. Her brain refused to make understanding of it all. No sound would pass her lips, not when she could only utter horrors.
“Duncross tried to say it was hereditary, that there was a history of bad female blood.”
Diana forced herself to open her eyes, thinking back. “Mama. . . suffered from distressing dreams.”
“Dreams?” he queried gently, without judgement.
She nodded, hating that her mother’s pain could be used so terribly. “She’d awake in the middle of the night, screaming. Babbling in French. You see, she and her sister spent years in Paris. My aunt remained there for some time after my mother. She was there at the beginning of the revolution and my mother imagined the worst. When she died of fever, she spoke often of how my aunt took far too many chances.”
His gaze widened and his jaw, his chiseled jaw, only hardened. “She was there, in Paris during The Terror?” he demanded.
Diana nodded. “Yes. But I still remember the day she suddenly appeared on our doorstep, thin, haggard, but magnificent. She never left the Highlands again.”
The duke glanced towards the window, some secret inside him coming to light. But quickly, he looked back, his gaze clear.
“I would like to assure you, I do not believe that your mother’s dreams are any indication of your madness or lack thereof.” He took a step forward, his face remarkably kind now. “I don’t think they indicate hers either. Your brother is clearly a selfish ponce who cares little for human suffering.”
Relief flooded through her, even as her heart ached at her brother’s misdeeds. It was almost too much. The varying states of emotions she had come to feel in such a short time.
Was she to soar and tumble again and again? It seemed so. Fear and hope were her dearest companions now.
“What shall happen?” she inquired, the only thing she really could do now.
“If your brother has a physician willing to declare you are incompetent,” he began carefully, “your fate is sealed. He can do it the moment he has his hands on you.”
“This is yer reply, Yer Grace?” she whispered. Diana struggled not to shake with fear at her possible future. For she had seen the inside of a madhouse once. It had been deemed an entertainment by a family she had visited as a girl. She had not been entertained but horrified for the poor souls trapped inside. Their lives had been a never-ending misery of torture, imprisonment, and mockery.
“You asked me what was to happen.” The duke folded his arms across his broad chest. “He is your closest male relative and has all control over you.”
“But ye are a duke—”
“I can threaten him, of course,” Raventon pointed out quickly. “But if he is determined, the law is on his side.”
Her shoulders sagged. She stared at the beautiful man, in his perfect clothes, and fought not to despair that the man who she had come to was failing her.
“I can hide you or send you away, but he might find you,” he added.
She nodded, her heart breaking. Had it truly come to this? There would be only one option in the end. She would have to run. Run all her life.
“Or. . .”
“Or?” she challenged, anger sparking to match her despair.
His gaze held hers and he took a step forward. “I can become your nearest male relative. Marry me and he can’t touch you.”
Marry me.
There it was. Again. She had thought he had spoken out of passion and a desire to rescue her last evening. Now, it seemed he meant it. But why? Why would he wed a woman he barely knew?
“Why would ye do this?” she asked in all seriousness. “Do ye offer marriage to every woman in danger?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I do not. In fact, I have never offered any woman marriage.”
“Then why now?” she challenged. “To save me?”
“To save you?” he echoed. A deep sadness swept over him. “To save myself, perhaps?”
“Whatever can ye mean?”
He shook his head, and whatever shadows that had danced in his eyes vanished, replaced by reason. “Lady Diana, I must marry. I’m a duke. An heir must be procured. And when I look upon you, I see a brave woman. A woman of fire. I could stash you away somewhere with guards. But I would rather see you defy your brother and dance as his wicked plans burn. As a duchess, you can see that transpire. You aren’t afraid of me. You could be my partner. Not a submissive lady who bends to my will. Take a chance on freedom, Lady Diana.” He paused before adding, “Take a chance on me.”
His speech was so much to take in, she could scarce countenance it. Did he truly see her thus? She’d always felt strong with an independent mind. It felt marvelous to be recognized as such. But even so. . . could she risk it?
“Marriage and freedom are contradictory in yer own words,” she replied evenly. “For ye would be my master.”
“Indeed, I would,” he agreed without apology. “But I will be a far better master than the warden of a madhouse.”
She let out a dry laugh. “Ye suggest I choose between masters.”
“We all must,” the duke replied with surprising kindness and honesty. “Let me be plain. I will be your master by law. I will own you, your property, and our children. But I will never compel you to act against your will, your heart, or your conscience.”
She pressed her palm to her cheek. How had it all become such a coil? How was she standing in a duke’s home contemplating marriage because her brother wished her utter destruction? “How can I believe ye?”
“I swear,” he replied simply.
She gaped at him. “Ye swear?”
He nodded his understanding. It was a great leap to simply take a man at his word.
The Duke of Raventon crossed before her, the power of his person all but filling up the space as he intoned, “I swear on the memory of Angeline Purcelle, you will be as free as any woman can be in this wicked world.”
The solemn weight of his words fell upon her and she could not escape the intensity of it. This was no small thing to swear upon this name. That was clear. And she wouldn’t try to deny it.
“Then I take ye at yer word,” she whispered. “And claim my freedom in our marriage. And I will gladly dance in the ashes of my brother’s burned plans.”
“For you, I’ll play the bloody music, Diana.”
And she knew then, that he was both a dedicated and a dangerous man and that she might have leapt from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. But these flames? These flames would burn with a delicious heat. Of that, she was certain.
And finally, the fact that she was about to escape hell dawned upon her. She smiled. The first true smile she’d expressed in months.
“When are we to the church, Yer Grace?” she asked, hardly believing this could all be real.
“Is tonight too soon, my lady?”
“It canna be soon enough,” she replied, even as her voice hitched at the realization she was about to belong to this strange and powerful man.
Chapter 9
“All hell is about to break loose,” Max said, and he had not even announced his own marriage. Oh no, the horrific piece of news that they had received just a mere hour ago had demanded all of their presences here, in their secret place.
“Isn’t it always,” drawled Damian, Duke of Drake, as he sat before the pianoforte in the hidden, upstairs room of Number 79.
The stoked fire crackled cheerfully, a counterpoint to their moods, in the giant hearth and the men sitting and standing about it looked far more grave than usual.
“I can scarce believe it about Ardore’s sister,” growled Harley. “It’s a bloody disgrace.”
Royland nodded his dark head, the tip of his cheroot burning red. “Ardore’s down at the estate now, trying to see if she can be recovered at all. . . but the rumors.”
“She has syphilis,” Drake stated, giving the information with no sense of condemnation. No. If anyone was to be condemned, it would be the men who had done this to Ardore’s sister.
“Christ,” hissed Blackstone.
“She was used most foully,” Max bit out, for he had received the most information as he almost always did. The gossip had come to him through his contacts in the worst parts of London.
“My God. How did this happen?” Royland whispered. “She’s well attended.”
A muscle in Drake’s jaw tightened. “How is any beautiful young girl seduced by a powerful man and made a plaything of—”
“Ardore will murder someone,” Blackstone broke in, driving a hand though his thick, black hair.
“He’ll want revenge,” Drake countered. “Murder is not revenge.”
“We can help him,” Max said immediately. And it was true. Somehow, they could. No matter how terrible things seemed.
Royland shuddered with fury. “To think one our own was dragged into that circle of lechers—”
Drake snorted. “That so called circle is half of the men of our class. They linger at the Temples of Venus debauching innocents. They revel in the infestation of youth.”
“What is to be done?” Harley demanded.
“Done?” Drake asked, staring back. “We support Ardore. We destroy the man who did this to his sister. We destroy anyone who had anything to do with it.” Drake eyes crackled with the fierce danger that he kept so tightly under control. “That’s what Number 79 is for.”
Max looked around at the only men he’d ever called his friends. Friends. It was a difficult term. For it meant trust and care. He had not always shared his most intimate secrets with them but he did trust them.
They would help each other when the world burned about them. And they knew the darkest parts of each other’s souls. It was why he had called this meeting, to seek their help, but the news of Ardore had crashed upon them.
Even so, he had to speak. There was no time for delay. Not even in the face of such tragedy. “I have news.”
The others turned to him, clearly still in a fury over the events that had only recently unfolded.
“Yes, old boy?” Harley asked.
Max drew in a long breath, knowing this would be difficult to explain. “I’m to be married.”
The men looked at each other, clearly conflicted. None of them felt like celebrating, which was what such an announcement should warrant.
“Of course, we wish you great joy,” Blackstone said, though his voice was hollow.
“We do,” Royland added, because it was the right thing to be done, but he, too, could not imbue his tone with meaning.
“But this is a difficult moment to lift our spirits in celebration,” Harley finished, expressing the sentiments that Raventon had not.
“This isn’t a celebration, is it Raventon.” Drake’s gaze narrowed. “This is another crisis. That’s why you dare to mention it now.”
Drake had always had a darker intuition than his friends. The years of cruelty that had shaped him had made his instincts strong and Max was not surprised that Drake was the one to sense the true nature of his marriage.
The others waited silently for confirmation of Drake’s proclamation.
Max gave a tight nod. “It is true. I am to marry Lady Diana Argyle. . . before her brother can have her committed to the madhouse.”
Only the sound of the wood crackling on the fire met his words.
The other men, all men who had faced horrors of varying degrees and the hells of the war, fairly gaped at his revelation.
“I will be accused of the worst misuse of a young woman,” Max said quickly and factually. “She has only just reached her majority. She has a fortune. She has stayed in my house without marriage and only the care of her maid.” He drew in a long breath, grateful that his friends would already know he was not a cad and would never abuse a young lady. “You see, she came to me for help.”
“And she is not mad?” Royland asked, though it sounded more of an iteration of fact rather than a question.
Max ground his teeth together. “No more than any of us in this room. But the brother has a doctor willing to profess her insanity. I foresee the distribution of pamphlets to smear her, his need for funds is likely so great.”
Glancing at his friends who had been there for him since boyhood, Max did something he almost never had occasion to do. He asked for help. “I will need your support in the coming weeks. Our marriage will steal any incentive of those that wish her harm and it will keep her out of the hellish bounds of an institution for lunatics.”
“The world is peopled with villains,” Blackstone growled. “My father. My older brother. The bastards that ruined Ardore’s sister. This man. . . what the hell is wrong with these men?”
“They share a common trait,” Drake said with far more seriousness than he was usually given to. “They give a wit for no one and nothing but themselves.”
“So, you’re marrying the girl to save her?” Harley queried, his gaze shadowed. “Surely—”
“I do not think the brother can be easily driven off,” Max cut in, knowing what Harley might say and desirous to stop any such thoughts before they could be spoken. “If one of the two is mad, it is he. There was a glint to his eyes. . .”
Harley cocked his head to the side and nodded. “We draw ranks then, old boy.”
“Yes,” Raventon said, relieved it was going to be so easy to bring his friends into line with his plan.
Drake turned on the silk-covered bench before the piano. “Hold.” Casually, his hand traced over a few minor keys before he said, “There is more to this story, Raventon.”
Max tensed. Bloody hell. Of course, Drake would catch the scent of the undercurrent he’d striven to hide. But unlike the others, Drake knew masking. Knew it, for once as a child, Drake’s life had depended upon it.
“There’s a mystery to her,” Raventon confessed.
“Mystery?” echoed Blackstone as he poured brandy out into several snifters.
