The Duke of Ruin (The Untouchables Book 8) Read online

  “Or you tell your father you don’t want to marry Nick. There will be a small scandal, but you’ll weather it.”

  “I don’t care about the scandal.”

  He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, and since it wasn’t due to a potential scandal, it had to be her father. “You should go. Anywhere. I’ll be waiting for you at midnight at the intersection of Curzon Street and Bolton Street.” He touched her hand. “I’ll wait all night long.”

  She jerked back, her gaze flicking to the maid, who was still watching them. “I have to go.”

  He took a step back. “I hope to see you later.”

  She turned and hurried to her maid, said a few words, and then they left the park.

  Simon exhaled, realizing he’d held his breath while he’d watched her depart. What if she didn’t meet him? Would he simply return home in the morning and go about his business?

  He couldn’t. Not knowing what she would be going through if she decided to stay and tell her father that she didn’t want to marry Nick.

  Goddammit, Nick had made an utter disaster of things. Simon wanted to punch him, and yet he wanted to hug him at the same time. He understood the depths of the despair that had propelled him to agree to marry Miss Kingman. Simon knew what it felt like to suffer unimaginable loss. But for him, it was even worse because, for all he knew, he’d caused that loss.

  Miriam’s face, framed by her thick, honey-blonde hair, rose in his mind. He saw her lips curve into a smile and heard the musical lilt of her laugh. The hole within him was still deep, but at least it had stopped expanding. He could think of her without doubling over, without an overwhelming rush of grief. He’d reclaimed his life, such as it was.

  The guilt, however, was still there. And it always would be. She’d been carrying his child when she’d fallen down the stairs to her death, and Simon was certainly to blame.

  However did one recover from that?

  * * *

  The butler helped remove Diana’s cloak after she entered the house. She was grateful to be rid of the heavy woolen garment. Though the day was cold, she was quite heated from her walk. And from agitation. Her meeting with the Duke of Romsey had been thoroughly vexing.

  Diana told her maid that she’d been talking to her friend Abigail’s brother Theodore because he was worried about Abigail, who’d developed a tendre for an inappropriate gentleman. Diana said she’d promised to dissuade Abigail from pursuing a courtship.

  Relatively confident the maid had accepted her story, Diana felt slightly better. But only slightly. Her entire life was in a shambles. Because of love.

  What a useless, irritating emotion. It supposedly brought people joy, but Diana didn’t see it. In her experience, misery was far more likely. Even with the case of her fiancé—former fiancé—he and Violet had apparently suffered years apart.

  Though she’d no desire to pursue love for herself, Diana wouldn’t begrudge others if they wanted to expose themselves to such vulnerability. She hoped they would be happy together. They’d better be after all this trouble.

  Crossing the entry hall, Diana pulled her gloves off and reached for the ribbon of her bonnet. Her mother came in from the drawing room. “How was your walk, dear? Come and sit with me so we can discuss the wedding.”

  Even when the wedding was going to happen, Diana hadn’t been enthusiastic about it. She’d asked him to marry her so that she could get out from under her father’s roof. The Duke of Kilve had seemed as though he was looking for a solution to something too, so she’d proposed that they wed. Now it appeared he’d been running away from Violet. But why? That was a question she’d likely never have answered. His business was none of hers any longer.

  Diana forced a smile. “Can we talk later? The cold air gave me a touch of a headache, and I’d like to lie down.”

  “Pathetic.” The dark, bitter word darted around the entry hall like a weapon, which, of course, it was. Everything her father said was intended to hurt or manipulate or destroy. “When your mother asks you to do something, particularly to do with this wedding, you’ll do it.” He came from behind Diana, likely from his office, which was in that corner of the town house. He could overhear just about anything that occurred in the hall.

  “It’s all right,” her mother said feebly. “We can talk later.”

  Diana knew her father wouldn’t accept that, but before she could acquiesce and save both herself and her mother grief, he said, “She’ll do it now. The demands of a duchess will be constant. She needs to learn that her own needs don’t come first.”

  Diana bit back a hollow laugh. She’d never been allowed her own needs.

  “If she can’t be bothered to plan her own wedding—or be enthusiastic about it—perhaps she has no business being a duchess.” He glowered down at her from his nearly six feet, his dark brown eyes raging.

  She turned her head away from him. “Then maybe I shouldn’t be a duchess,” she muttered, especially since she wasn’t going to be.

  He grabbed her arm, his fingers pressing ruthlessly into her flesh through the sleeve of her gown. “What did you say, chit? Perhaps a visit to a nice dark closet would help your headache improve.”

  “N—” She bit her tongue until it bled. “No. Thank you. I find I’m eager to discuss the wedding plans.” She turned to her mother. “In fact, I had a few thoughts about the flowers.”

  Her father released her arm and straightened his coat. “Excellent. I’ll leave you two to manage things.” The fire was gone from his gaze, and it was moments like these that made Diana wonder if she were mad, if the man who’d threatened her actually existed. Especially given what he did next. He smiled at her, warmth lighting his eyes. “You will be an excellent duchess. We’ve worked so hard. You’ll make us all proud.”

  After he returned to his office, Diana heard her mother’s exhalation. “That was unwise, Diana,” she whispered.

  Diana knew it, but sometimes the words just tumbled from her mouth. Weariness pulled at her frame. “What did you wish to discuss, Mother?”

  “Just the breakfast menu. It won’t take but a moment.” She turned and went into the drawing room and didn’t stop until she’d reached the desk in the corner, where she picked up a sheaf of paper, then retraced her steps.

  Diana pulled her bonnet from her head and met her mother in the middle of the room.

  “I’m not sure if we should have duck or pheasant. What do you think?”

  That none of this matters.

  She nearly told her mother the truth right then. But fear of her father’s wrath—so quickly after one of his outbursts—held her tongue. “Duck. What else?”

  Her mother looked at her a moment, her gaze softening. “You really shouldn’t provoke him. You know better than to do that.”

  Yes, she did. But sometimes, particularly after a long period of calm, which they’d enjoyed since she’d become engaged, she forgot herself. Or, more accurately, she forgot him.

  “And why would you joke about such a thing?” Her mother scoffed and then ended up laughing. “Don’t you want to be away from here as soon as possible?”

  They rarely spoke of his anger or the ways in which he tortured them both, which, despite the way he’d just grabbed her, was almost entirely nonphysical. He’d pushed her mother a few times, but once in a while, Diana wondered if it had ever gone further between them. She’d always been too afraid to ask.

  She looked into her mother’s soft blue eyes. “Don’t you?”

  Her mother flinched. “Of course not. I’m quite content. In spite of things.” She summoned a smile that Diana didn’t completely believe. “You mustn’t worry about me. I love your father, and he loves me—never doubt that.”

  Strangely, Diana didn’t. But it forgave nothing.

  The headache Diana had professed to have earlier bloomed behind her left ear. “What else do you need me to look over?”

  “That’s it for now. Go and rest. I can tell you don’t feel quite right.”

&n
bsp; “Thank you, Mother.” Diana leaned over and kissed her cheek, then departed the drawing room.

  Upstairs, her maid attended her immediately, helping her to undress so she could lie down before dinner. “Are my parents staying in tonight?” Diana asked. She’d won a reprieve from social events this week because her fiancé had asked for one. Whereas her father would’ve dragged her out anyway, now that she was engaged—or supposedly so—he’d decided to allow her the freedom of remaining home.

  “I believe they are attending a ball. Do you wish to join them?”

  Diana shook her head. “No. It will be nice to be alone. In fact, please have my dinner brought here. Then I shall retire early.” That would give her plenty of time to pack.

  Wait, had she decided to leave? Where would she go?

  The maid finished up and left.

  Diana sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her armoire. Inside was a wardrobe any young miss would crave. But she’d walk away from it all if it meant true freedom. Not just one night in which she didn’t have to parade around the town with her parents, but a lifetime of deciding what she wore, whom she talked to, and whom she married. If she married.

  A bead of excitement bubbled inside her.

  But, again, where would she go? And what would she do?

  The only way she could avoid her father would be to marry someone. The Duke of Romsey had offered.

  She shivered.

  He was the Duke of Ruin—or so everyone called him. He’d been a terrible rake before marrying, and then his wife had died under very mysterious circumstances. It was widely accepted that he pushed her down the stairs in a drunken rage. Apparently, he never disputed that, which only lent credence to the rumor.

  She couldn’t spend her life with someone prone to rages. Never mind that he’d never demonstrated such behavior. It wasn’t just that she’d never seen it—their acquaintance had been rather brief after all. She’d asked and been told that he was always affable and kind. He was also witty and charming.

  And he kissed divinely. Not that she had anything at all to compare him to.

  She abruptly stood and paced around her bed, clasping and unclasping her hands.

  If she stayed, her father would be furious, and there was no telling how he might punish her, especially if her reputation suffered. He might even try to enforce the marriage with the Duke of Kilve, but Diana suspected that wouldn’t end well.

  She could absolutely rely on him arranging a marriage with someone else as soon as possible, and this time, she doubted he’d take her preferences into account. He’d suggested a few other men whom she’d judged too old or too unpleasant—they’d all made her uncomfortable, and she was too afraid to see what a marriage to them would mean. It was better to stay with the devil she knew than one she didn’t.

  It certainly looked as if she had to go. But really, it would only postpone the inevitable doom.

  Unless she was able to disappear entirely. She sat on the bed and lay back against the pillows, indulging her fantasy. She’d live at the edge of a charming village where she’d run a small home for orphaned girls. She’d teach them and help them find their way—independently—in the world.

  She dozed off, but not before she decided what she had to do.

  Chapter 2

  Another cold breeze whipped past Simon, making him burrow deeper into the wool of his cloak. Perhaps saying he would stand outside all night in December hadn’t been his best plan. It had only been fifteen minutes, and he was ready to find a fire.

  He’d expected her to come, but with each minute that passed, he feared he was wrong.

  It was a huge decision, and it would change her whole life. Probably. Did she want that?

  Her father sounded like an ass. For her sake, Simon hoped she came.

  He began to walk—the length of two town houses and then back again—hoping the movement would warm him a bit. When he turned for another circuit, he squinted down the street, as if he could conjure her appearance. Her house was at the other end of Curzon Street, near Chesterfield House.

  Four more circuits. He wasn’t much warmer, but it kept his mind off the cold. He was glad there was a warming block in the coach. He checked his watch. Half past. Damn. He’d really thought she would come.

  He turned at the corner and started back along the street, then froze. Was that a figure coming his way? He increased his pace, taking long strides. It was her.

  “You came.”

  She carried a small valise, and he promptly took it from her. “Is this all you have?” he asked.

  “It’s all I could carry.”

  He nodded. “It’s enough. We can obtain anything else you might need along the way.” He curved his arm along her lower back and guided her quickly back the way he’d come. “My coach is up here around the corner.”

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. It’s nearly freezing.”

  He appreciated her concern. “It wasn’t long. I’m fine.”

  They turned the corner, and his coachman jumped down from the box to open the door.

  “Thank you, Tinley.” Simon handed the valise to the coachman to stow behind his seat.

  Simon paused before helping her into the coach. “Where are we headed?”

  “Lancashire.”

  “Excellent.” Simon assisted her into the vehicle before turning to the coachman. “You have our direction.”

  “Just so, Your Grace.” He bowed, then waited for Simon to climb inside before closing the door behind him.

  Simon sat beside Miss Kingman on the forward-facing seat.

  “Aren’t you going to sit over there?” she asked.

  “I’d prefer if we share the seat and the foot warmer.” He reached for the woolen blanket sitting atop the opposite bench and drew it over their lower halves so that the heat from the foot warmer was trapped against them.

  Her brow furrowed slightly, and her body seemed a bit rigid, but she didn’t say anything. She’d get used to it, Simon thought. She’d better, because they were going to be together for quite some time. It would take them a week to get to Lancashire. He hoped they’d be able to make thirty miles a day, but it would depend entirely on the weather and road conditions, both of which were bound to be trouble in December. Suddenly he wondered at the wisdom of undertaking this journey—heading north at this time of year.

  “What’s in Lancashire?” he asked as they started moving.

  “My cousin.” She was still quite tense, both vocally and physically. Perhaps she was cold. Or just nervous. Of course she was nervous. This wasn’t at all what she’d planned to do when she’d awakened that morning.

  “And why did you choose to go there?”

  She cast him a quick glance, and in the dim light from the single lantern hanging inside the coach, he confirmed from the concern in her eyes that she was agitated. “Honestly, I couldn’t think of where else to go. I left a note saying I didn’t wish to marry the duke and that I’d gone home to King’s Grange. That’s our family home in Norfolk.”

  He admired her courage. “That couldn’t have been easy. What will happen when the note is found tomorrow morning?”

  “My father will rage and likely leave immediately for Norfolk. It will take him three and a half days to get there or perhaps less because he’ll wish to overtake me. He won’t, of course, and so he’ll go all the way before finding I’m not there.”

  “You’ve thought this through.”

  The look she gave him then would have shriveled the staunchest of knights. “I had no choice.”

  No, she did not, and for that, he would feel eternally regretful.

  She exhaled, and finally, a bit of tension seeped from her frame. “I don’t blame you. I’m angry and frustrated, but it isn’t your fault. You’re doing your best to help me.”

  “You blame Nick.”

  “I should, but you’re right—I wouldn’t want to be married to someone who was in love with someone else. I’m glad for him and Violet. Or I wi
ll be when I’m finished being angry.”

  Simon smiled in the near darkness. “I like you, in spite of your youth.”

  Her gaze took on a glint of circumspection. “My youth?”

  Damn, he hadn’t meant to sound insulting. He’d never had much interest in young debutantes, which was precisely what Miss Kingman was. She couldn’t be a day over twenty-one and maybe wasn’t even that old. “My apologies. In my experience, the younger set is typically lacking—and I include myself in that description when I was your age.” At thirty-one, he felt positively ancient beside her. “How old are you anyway?” He winced inwardly, wishing he hadn’t asked.

  “Nearly twenty-one. But as to whether I’m lacking… You scarcely know me.” Her tone carried a hint of scolding, which he heartily deserved.

  “That will be rectified in the coming days, and I can already tell you are quite… What’s the opposite of lacking?” he asked.

  She blinked at him. “Profuse? Or perhaps sufficient.”

  Sufficient was not a word he’d use to describe her. That seemed to indicate a bare minimum and there was nothing bare or minimal about Miss Kingman. “You are delightful, and I’m a beast. Will that description suffice?”

  She nodded primly. “For now, yes.”

  A chuckle escaped his throat. Yes, he liked her. And perhaps in time, she’d grow to like him in return during the course of their journey. On that topic, he wanted her to know what to expect. “We will enjoy close quarters as we travel, both in the coach and where we stay. I will purposely choose smaller lodgings, and we will pose as Mr. and Mrs. Phineas Byrd.”

  She stared at him. “Phineas Byrd? That’s the name you chose?”

  “It’s a bit dashing with a dose of humor. Don’t you agree?”

  “Do I have a name?”

  “I thought you should choose, though I will endeavor to refer to you only as Mrs. Byrd. I do admit I thought Kitty might be amusing.”

  “Kitty Byrd?” There was a beat of silence followed by her lyrical laughter filling the coach. She laughed loud and long before finally putting her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she managed at last. “That’s preposterous. I love it.”