“Your rules may govern here, but so does a sword,” she added with a confident smile. She knew her father’s trade well enough to keep this devil at bay. Lord Frostmore rolled up onto his feet now, brushing his pants before he looked at her again, this time more critically and with far less anger.
“It seems a sword’s tip provides enough persuasion for me to offer you dinner while we await your driver’s rescue and a room is prepared for you tonight. Would you permit me?” He unlocked the door and gestured for her to precede him into the hall. She kept her sword raised, expecting him to change his mind at any moment and pounce on her.
“You may go first, to show me the way.” She was not foolish enough to offer him her exposed back.
The duke led her back down the hall and into a large dining room. He summoned a servant to light candles and bring wine and food. Harriet took the seat farthest from him at the opposite end of the long table, putting her foil on the edge of the table within easy reach. Her shoulder still ached fiercely, but she masked any hint of pain.
“You said that your name is Russell? You would not be kin to Edward Russell, the fencing master? Does he still teach?”
“I am his daughter. He died six years ago.” She watched his hooded eyes for any reaction.
“The man was a fine tutor to many a lad at Cambridge. I am pleased he taught you his trade as well.” The duke’s lips twitched in a small smile. “What brings you through Dover? Your father had a home in the Cotswolds, if I remember correctly.”
“We lived there before he died. I was on my way to Calais to join his family.” She didn’t mention her mother; even thinking of her brought such fresh pain.
“You have my condolences,” the duke replied. There was a strange sincerity that seemed out of place as he said it, but it was brief, and his eyes soon glinted again with a cavalier attitude that spoke of a man who indulged in dark pleasures and cared not one whit about anyone judging him for it.
A servant entered the dining room, bearing a tray of hastily prepared food and a bottle of wine. The duke ate immediately and without concern, sampling all of the dishes as though to show her he had no intention of poisoning her. Harriet was famished after the long evening, and she ate probably more than was wise, but while tending to her mother for the last few weeks, she’d barely been able to eat, her grief and worry too overpowering.
Lord Frostmore watched her eat with an air of amused satisfaction. “Miss Russell, permit me to ask a question.” Harriet saw no harm in allowing it; she could always refuse to answer if the question was offensive to her.
She took a sip of wine. “What do you wish to ask?”
“You are not married?”
It was an unexpected question, and she gulped uncomfortably. “Married? No.”
“Why not? You are a beautiful woman.” The duke leaned forward in his chair to prop his elbows up on the table. Harriet knew she should be concerned with where this conversation might be going, but she felt oddly at ease with answering his question.
“I…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I remained with my mother when my father died. I was but fourteen when my mother remarried. The man…my stepfather…did not allow us much time to be out in society. I didn’t have a chance for love.” She knew it must sound ridiculous to a man like him, to speak of love and other such romantic notions, but she’d often wondered what her life would have been like if she’d met a young man in Faversham and married. Would she now be hosting a gathering to celebrate the arrival of a babe? What might her life have been like?
He set his fork down on his plate of venison and studied her. “And now? Do you consider yourself interested in love?”
“I believe so. If the right gentleman comes along, a man with honor.” She wanted to marry someone like her father. A good man, a man with laughing eyes and a warm smile and a heart full of love.
“A man of honor? There is no such thing. We are all scoundrels and demons—some are merely better at hiding our horns than others.” Lord Frostmore smiled wryly, his fingers toying with his still full glass of wine.
Harriet did not say anything; though she was tempted to point out that he seemed not to care that she could see his horns, and even his tail and pitchfork.
“The man doesn’t have to be a saint,” she added, quietly thinking it over. “But I could never marry a man who seeks to check my character at every turn like some willful pet. Despite the current laws of England, I am not property and would never marry a man who treated me as such.” She hadn’t given much thought to love and romance since her father died, however. She’d been living under George’s shadow for so long that she’d locked that part of her dreams away.
But now, as she was thinking about it, she knew deep in her heart that she could not agree to marry a man unless he kindled some fire in her blood. She believed herself to be a woman of wild passions, and she needed a husband who would embrace that, not condemn her for it. It would not do to stifle her unpredictable nature by marriage to a man who would ruin her vivacity.
Harriet reached for her wineglass to take another drink, but her movements seemed slower than before, as though her strength was finally failing her after the ordeal of the night.
“Not all men treat their wives as property. Some men dare to love and to dream, even when it costs them their very souls.” The duke pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet and began to walk toward her.
Concerned by his slow, predatory progress in her direction, Harriet reached for her sword. Her fingers curled around the smooth metal of the handle, and she felt safe again.
“Please do not come any closer, Your Grace. I do not… I do not trust you.” She pushed her chair back and stood up, but her head reeled with an unforeseen bout of dizziness, and words became suddenly harder to form.
Her sword arm wavered, the blade tip falling a few inches. She blinked; her vision doubled and swirled slowly. Harriet fell against the table for support, nearly dropping her foil since she had but one good strong arm to brace her weight with. As Lord Frostmore reached her, he attempted to gently wrest the blade from her, but she whipped it up in an arc at him. But her action was too slow, and he caught her wrist and squeezed lightly.
“Drop it,” he ordered. The sword clattered to the floor. Harriet swung her free fist at his face, then screamed in pain as her shoulder twinged violently.
“You little fool,” he muttered. “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” His voice was soft and gentle, and for a second she wondered if he cared about her, but how could he care? He was a devil.
Lord Frostmore caught her in his arms, and the pain lessened as whatever was happening to her deepened even further. It was as though some sorcerer had cast a powerful sleeping spell upon her. Would she wake in some distant tower, cobwebs covering her form as she woke to a kiss from a prince? Her mother used to read her fairy tales as a child, and now…now it was all she could think about. Princes…dark towers and enchantments…endless sleep.
