Page 1 of Duke of Myste
PROLOGUE
“You are, without question, the most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune of encountering!” Jane Brandon’s voice cut through the polite murmur of conversation like a hot blade, causing several nearby guests to turn with expressions of scandalized interest.
The garden pavilion that had been erected for Marian and Nicholas’s wedding reception offered little privacy for such an outburst, its airy design allowing both light and sound to travel unimpeded across the manicured lawns of Fyre Estate. Delicate lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, casting alternating patterns of light and shadow across Jane’s face as she confronted the towering figure before her.
Richard Riverstone, the Duke of Myste, regarded her with the impassivity that had earned him the nicknameStone-faced Dukein certain circles. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed any reaction to her words.
“Miss Brandon,” he replied, his deep voice measured and controlled, “perhaps you might consider lowering your voice. This is, after all, your sister’s wedding celebration.”
“Do not presume to lecture me about proper behavior,” Jane retorted, though she did modulate her volume slightly. Her gloved hands were clenched at her sides, the fine silk of her gown rustling with the full force of her rising anger. “Not when you stand there, passing judgment on matters you understand nothing about.”
Around them, guests pretended not to listen while straining to catch every word. The bride and groom were thankfully occupied elsewhere, no doubt receiving congratulations from a cluster of aristocrats near the main house. Diana, Jane’s twin, hovered uncertainly at the edge of the gathering, her expression one of helpless concern.
“I know more than you seem to give me credit for,” the Duke said, his gaze never straying from Jane’s face. “Just as I understand that your opinions on the proper conduct of a young lady in Society are decidedly… unconventional.”
Jane took a step closer, the subtle floral scent of her perfume mingling with the earthy scent of his sandalwood cologne in the small space between them. “My opinions, as you call them, are based on principles of equality and rational thought—concepts you seem rather incapable of comprehending beneath all that rigid propriety.”
A muscle twitched in the Duke’s cheek—the only visible sign that her barb had hit its mark. “Principles without practical application are merely philosophical indulgences, Miss Brandon. The world does not bend to accommodate ideals, no matter how fervently held.”
“And yet it is precisely such principles that drive progress forward, while men like you stand firm in opposition, holding desperately to the past as though change itself were the enemy.” Jane’s deep brown eyes flashed with the same fire that illuminated her features whenever she engaged in intellectual combat. “Perhaps if more people were willing to defend their ideals with the same vigor you defend tradition, Society might evolve beyond its current state of comfortable hypocrisy.”
The Duke’s posture stiffened even further, if such a thing were possible. “You mistake adherence to proven standards for mere stubbornness. There is value in tradition because it has withstood the test of time.”
“Or perhaps,” Jane countered, lifting her chin in challenge, “it has merely been protected by those who benefit most from its preservation. How convenient that the rules you so ardently defend happen to favor men of your position and station.”
The silence that followed her words seemed to stretch, engulfing the space between them with dangerous possibilities. The guests nearest to their heated exchange had now abandoned all pretense of disinterest, openly watching the confrontation with expressions that ranged from shock to barely concealed delight.
“You presume to know a great deal about my motivations, Miss Brandon,” the Duke said finally, his voice dropping to a murmur that only she could hear. “Yet you have made no effort to understand the reasons behind my convictions.”
“Understanding requires explanation,” Jane replied, matching his tone. “And explanation requires the ability to examine one’s beliefs critically, rather than simply declaring them superior by virtue of tradition.”
For the briefest moment, something akin to genuine surprise flickered across the Duke’s features, but it was gone so quickly that Jane thought she might have imagined it.
Before he could formulate a response, Lady Prudence Brandon, the Viscountess Drownshire, appeared at her daughter’s side, alarm radiating from every pore.
“Jane, dear,” she said, her voice carrying the particular strain of a mother attempting to avoid a catastrophe. “I believe Diana was looking for you. Something about Marian’s bouquet, I believe?”
Jane recognized the rescue attempt for what it was, but the mention of her twin sister provided the necessary reminder of her responsibilities. This was neither the time nor the place for such a confrontation, no matter how strong her indignation. She had gotten carried away and, to top it all, drawn unwanted attention at her eldest sister’s wedding celebration.
“Of course, Mama,” she said, offering the Duke a curtsy so brief it bordered on insolent. “Your Grace, I thank you for this most…illuminating exchange. I shall treasure your insights precisely as they deserve.”
The Duke bowed in return, the formal gesture at odds with the intensity of his hazel gaze. “Until our next encounter, Miss Brandon. I look forward to continuing our… discussion… at a more appropriate time.”
As Jane followed her mother, she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. The Duke remained where she had left him, his tall figure silhouetted against the lantern light, watching her retreat with an expression she could not quite decipher.
Something about that steady gaze sent a shiver down her spine. Not fear, but something far more dangerous: anticipation.
Despite herself, despite her anger and frustration, Jane found herself wondering when and where their next battle of wits would take place.
It was a thought that both irritated and intrigued her in equal measure—a contradiction she was not yet ready to examine too closely.
CHAPTER 1
“Diana? Diana, where on earth have you disappeared to?”
Jane Brandon’s voice carried through the crowded ballroom, though it did little to penetrate the wall of silk-clad bodies and the orchestra’s enthusiastic rendition of a country dance. Her deep brown eyes darted from one masked face to another, searching for the familiar silhouette of her twin.
The masquerade ball at Lord and Lady Thornton’s was in full swing, with couples twirling across the polished floor and laughter spilling from every corner. Yet Jane’s stomach had begun to twist with inexplicable apprehension.
