Page 2 of The Duke's Price
Since Ruth had Bella’s word for it that her uncle had despised his foster sister, she had more than her instinct to say his promise was not worth a handful of beans.
“Miss Henwood, good evening.”
The voice that interrupted her musing was far from welcome. “Your grace,” she said. The Duke of Richport was as wicked a rake as Sombras, or so said his reputation. She knew this, but apparently her body was of a different opinion. Or perhaps, now she was in her mid-thirties, she had become susceptible to rakes. Certainly, this reaction to a man had never happened before.
She hoped she was successful in concealing her shiver of appreciation of the man’s smell and his physical presence.
The duke came up beside her, so she had to shift to avoid being plastered to his side. A far more attractive proposition than it should be, and an exaggeration, besides. At most, his elbow would have brushed hers, and perhaps her skirts might have lingered against his legs.
And there she went again, with thoughts that no respectable governess should tolerate for a moment.
“Stars above in the sky and below in the valley,” the duke commented. “It is as if we wander among the celestial orbs, Miss Henwood. No wonder the land is called Las Estrellas.”
Whimsy, Ruth had not expected, but he was right. With the Valle de las Estrellas in darkness, the lights in the township below the castle did look like stars. Just a few of them. People in Estrellas were far too hard working, as they rebuilt what had been destroyed by the long war, to stay up this late at night.
“I find this view restful at the end of the day,” she commented.
It was not entirely dark on the battlements. Here and there a lamp cast a pool of dim light, and she could see that Richport’s glance at her was amused. “Is that a hint that my absence would be appreciated, Miss Henwood?” he asked.
It would, but not for the reasons he might suppose. “You are a guest of a castle, your grace,” she said, and turned to leave.
“Please,” he said, “grant me a moment of your time. I came looking for you, because I wanted to warn you.”
Warn me of what? She did not ask the question, but merely waited.
“Sombras has no intention of waiting to consummate his marriage to the Princess Isabella,” said Richport. “He is lying to you, Miss Henwood. He plans to have you both.”
Ruth shut her eyes for a moment. It was as she thought. The duque could not be trusted. Was there no hope, then? “How do you know this?” she asked. “He told you?”
The duke nodded. “He says he does not regard a promise to a woman.”
Ruth had another question. “Why are you telling me this?” The two men were friends, after all. Yet here was Richport. She did not doubt the truth of what he said—she had suspected Sombras would not honour his promise for long, if at all. And if there was a trap in Richport telling her, she could not imagine what it might be.
Standing as she was with the nearest lamp behind her, she could see a brief uncertainty in his eyes. It extended to his tone as he replied. “Why indeed? Perhaps because I am yet a gentleman in that one matter. I do regard promises—to men, women, children, animals—as binding. That is why I do not make promises. His plans offend honour.”
The duke chuckled. “And listen to me, prating of honour, like an untried cub.” He shrugged, and turned back to look at the view. “Perhaps it is that we are both English. The only English people in all Las Estrellas.”
“Whatever your reasons, your grace, I thank you,” Ruth said. “It is as well to be warned. I can at least prepare Bella for the worst.”
He cast her another glance. “You will give in to him then?”
“Will he give me a choice?”
“No.” Just the one quiet word, but the regret in it started another thought in Ruth’s mind.
“Will you?” she asked.
He turned fully to face her. “Will I give you a choice? What would you have me do? Run my host through with a sword?” His voice was carefully devoid of emotion, giving no clue to his thoughts or feelings.
“Nothing so blood-thirsty,” Ruth assured him. “I am about to trust you with a secret, your grace.”
He grimaced. “If you must do such an unpleasant thing, call me by my name, Miss Henwood. I am Death. De-Ath, if you prefer. It is one of my names, and the one by which I am most often called.”
Ruth knew. She and a former charge had looked Richport up in the castle library’s copy of Debrett’s. Perran Albert Kendrick De-Ath Frampton, Duke of Richport, and a string of lesser titles. De-Ath was a Belgian name of two syllables, but he was more commonly referred to by the English word with the same spelling. And Perran was a Cornish name that meant Black. Had his parents known they were calling him Black Death? If so, they had a very twisted sense of humour.
She ignored the invitation. “I think I can get Bella out of Monteluz without Sombras being aware. I need money to spirit her across the border and then through Spain or France to a port where we can take a ship to England. Will you make me a loan of the money, Your Grace? I will be able to pay you back once I am in England and with my friend and her family.” She had her savings, and she was certain her former pupil, friend, and sister of the heart, the Countess of Chirbury, would give her refuge, and reimburse Richport.
“‘Will you make me a loan of the money, Death?’” said Richport.
