Page 10 of The Untamed Duke
“Richeforte collects woman the way other men collect cravats.” Ignoring Grace’s admonishment, Celia wrapped an arm about her narrow waist. “They are for his amusement. And he’s as careless with them as a wolf toying with a frightened rabbit. I’m afraid his horrid reputation does nothing in diminishing his appeal, however. Women trip over their own feet if he crooks a smile in their general direction, and even Baroness Ralston is completely smitten with him. There’s something to be said for attempting to tame such a creature. Even a horrid thing like her will try.”
“Let us talk no more about the duke. Gossip of his conquests is unnerving.” Grace shuddered, turning her back on the trio. She imagined the heat of Richeforte’s eyes tracing her spine, then realized how foolish that was. His Grace had no interest in her.
Celia nodded in agreement. “All right. I will instead apologize for Tristan’s actions today. I know he kissed you.” She smiled gently at Grace. “It doesn’t help matters at all, but my brother does adore you.”
Grace blinked in abrupt awareness. Had Nicholas March kissed her, she would not have resisted, despite his arrogance. “What Tristan loves most is the hunt...the chase. Not me. I care for him, Celia, in the same manner I care for you. You are like brother and sister to me, and I’ll never see either of you differently.”
Locating Tristan across the room, a twinge of unease tugged the pit of her stomach. As if aware of Grace’s thoughts, the viscount raised a glass in salute. His dark eyes turned somber, drifting with purpose from her and landing on the duke. Wearing a slight frown, he made his way toward the small group, and Grace breathed a sigh of relief that he was not headed her way.
“I know, dearest,” Celia replied sadly. “We shall all be relieved when he realizes it. His heart will be shattered though.”
“No more than it would destroy mine if I lost Bellmar Abbey and my horses.” Grace’s chin lifted slightly. “I won’t marry. Neither Longleigh nor any man. I’ve no intention of allowing another the rights to what is mine. I swore on my mother’s grave and the memory of my father, I would keep Bellmar Abbey. And Iwill.”
Chapter 4
Down this dark tunnel
behind a fortress of indifference
walls of pride and callous fences
my honor hides.
~Nicholas August Harris March
Ninth Duke of Richeforte
“There,there, darling.”
Mother’s crooning held a faraway quality beyond his comprehension. “Won’t you try a bit harder, my little love? To please him? Things would be easier if only you tried harder…” She stroked his tousled hair, darkly golden with perspiration and tears.
Nodding, face pressed against her hip, he sobbed with broken breaths into the cool silk of her gown. His thin legs burned. And his back. The sting of the duke’s riding crop left little streams of fire trailing across his skin. He was five years of age. He should not be crying like a baby. He also should not have tumbled from his pony’s broad back during that last jump.
“I will try, Mama.” Leaning back, he stared into the mossy hued sadness of his mother’s eyes. “I will.”
The door of Her Grace’s private suite flew open, his father bursting in, wild-eyed and shaking with rage. “I knew I’d find him here, sniveling into your skirts. Get out from behind your mother, boy. Damnit, what a disgrace you are! Weak, useless. Why was I cursed with such a stupid, lazy child? It’s your doing, Brianna, turning him soft...encouraging those damned scribblings. By God, I’ll fix him. I’ll mold him into a duke if it’s the last thing I do.” With one hand, he snatched his son up by his narrow shoulder, ignoring the blood that seeped through the linen shirt.
Mother intervened with a sharp cry of alarm, grasping her husband’s arm, but the duke half-turned, slapping her with a casual brutality across the cheek. Like a cut flower, she crumpled to the floor. The boy wailed, a sad, mournful sound. He forgot his own injury at the sight of his mother so dreadfully abused.
The duke’s attention returned to the pale, trembling victim held tight in his savage grip. “Richeforte falls to you one day,” he spat, one cruel hand moving to the scuff of the boy’s neck, holding him as if he were a rabid gutter rat. “I won’t let you destroy what I’ve built! Do you hear me? Do you?”
Blows fell, one after another. Like raindrops from a grey sky, melding the line between the heavens and storms that raged without mercy. The world rumbled, bright with lightning and booming thunderbolts. Blinding flashes of gunfire surrounded him. The aroma of green grass, wet with dew assailed his nostrils and the warm, sweet scent of his pony mingled with the coppery tang of blood. Men shouted, frantic calls for the physician. His mother wept into a white silk handkerchief. When he pried his eyes open, Sebastian Cain, the Earl of Ravenswood loomed over him, face twisted with hatred, hatred like his father, the Duke of Richeforte always wore.
A cloying, desperate cloak of misery covered him. Swirling faces twisting together, bits and pieces of time blurring into nothingness…and all of it cold. So damned cold and desolate.
Nicholas woke, drenched in sweat. A feminine form pinned him to the mattress. Swiping a forearm across his damp brow, he inhaled several deep breaths to banish the remnants of the recurring dream. As was his custom since recovering from the duel with his best friend nearly six years before, he absently rubbed the puckered divot scarring his left thigh.
The Baroness of Ralston lay draped across his midsection. Nicholas frowned. He did not invite her to stay. Women were never extended an invitation, and he never actuallysleptwith them. They were dismissed once they tended his needs. Prostitute or nobility, it didn’t matter; all suffered the same treatment.
A hard slap across the baroness’s round buttocks sent her scrambling to the other side of the bed.
“Ouch!”The glow of the banked fire illuminated Helene’s resentful yet pleased scowl while Nicholas rolled from the bed in a smooth motion, heedless of his nudity.
“You’re such a beast, Nick.” Her eyes greedily traversed the length of his body.
“You should return to your own room. Before the hour grows too late and someone sees you.”Jesus. I need a robe. Or a suit of armor.
“I’ll stay until morning.”
