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

  He held up the covers. “Back into the bed with you. I’ll apologize now if I get too close in the night, but it’s only to keep warm, I assure you.”

  She settled into the mattress, snuggling deep beneath the covers and staying as close to the edge as she dared. Still, she felt his heat behind her, and instead of being scandalized, she felt…pleasant.

  As she drifted off to sleep, she thought it might not be bad if he cozied up with her, not because he was cold but because he wanted to.

  Chapter 7

  A light rap on the door pulled Simon’s eyes open. He was aware of two things: someone was coming into their room, and Diana’s body was pressed up against his, her hand resting on his chest with two of her fingertips breaching the V-neck of his nightshirt so that they were flesh to flesh. Simon gently took her hand and tucked it to his side before bringing his head up from the pillow.

  The intruder was a boy. He glanced toward the bed, and seeing that Simon was awake, pointed at the fireplace. Realizing the boy was here to tend the fire, Simon nodded. He raised his finger to his lips and gestured toward Diana with his head. The boy bowed and went about his work.

  Simon lay back and stared at the low, pitched ceiling. Diana moved softly against him, her hand moving over his arm and resting on the underside of his elbow. It seemed she wasn’t content unless she had a hold of him. He didn’t mind that. No, in fact, his cock was quite pleased to have her touch.

  Shit. This was Coventry all over again. Well, not precisely. At least last night, he hadn’t completely overstepped propriety and showed her how to pleasure herself. He’d permitted one transgression with her. He wouldn’t allow another.

  Just one?

  What of stealing her away to the north of England and utterly changing her life? She couldn’t go back to her family without facing certain outrage and castigation, not to mention the public scorn she may endure. He hoped she would choose beginning her life anew in a place where she wasn’t known. Lord knows he would’ve done that if he could. Dukes, however, couldn’t disappear. But they could wander, especially when no one much cared.

  The boy finished and left. Regretfully, Simon removed Diana’s hand once more before slipping out of the bed. The room was cold, but the replenished fire was beginning to warm it up. Eager to see if they could leave, he went to the window. His heart sank, for the yard and road beyond were completely covered in a thick blanket of white. The sky was dark and gray, and it looked as if it would snow again.

  Blast it all.

  “What is it?”

  He turned from the window to see Diana sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. He stared at her for a moment before answering. She was unbearably lovely, her dark hair braided into a thick rope that draped across her right shoulder. He followed the line of that braid and couldn’t help but appreciate the swell of her breasts beneath her night rail. He jerked his gaze back to her face just as she was blinking at him, her features still creased and drowsy with sleep.

  “There’s quite a bit of snow on the ground,” he said. “And it looks to snow again.”

  “We can’t leave today?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I guess we get to have a snowball fight.” Her lips curved into a smile that made his heart jump.

  “I thought you were afraid of getting wet. It’s not as if we have an endless supply of clothing. At least not with us. I imagine you have a vast wardrobe.”

  “Too vast, truth be told.” There was an edge of distaste to her tone. Last night, she’d talked of coming to know him well. He’d come to know her too, and she did not like playing the role of debutante.

  “Come, then, let’s get dressed, and we can have a small snowball fight.” He realized he wasn’t dressed at all. He wore a nightshirt that hung to his thighs. And nothing else. He’d been careful to be dressed in front of her, and here he was standing here in the dim morning light, practically naked.

  She knew it too. Her gaze had traveled slowly over his form and now she worked to keep her attention focused on the coverlet, which she clasped to her chin. “I’ll just wait here until you’re dressed.”

  “I’ll be quick.” He went about pulling on his breeches and the rest of his clothing. When he’d put on his waistcoat, he turned the chair away from the bed and sat down to tug his boots on. “I’m busy with my boots, and my back is to the bed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He listened to her movements, by now aware of what she was doing by the sound. So it didn’t come as a surprise when her voice came from just behind him. “Can you help with my corset?”

  “Of course.” He rose and tied her undergarment, pulling it tight around her torso. He always strove to keep his knuckles from grazing her, but sometimes, he failed. Today, he brushed her spine and almost flinched in his hurry to pull his hand away.

  “Let me help you with your petticoat and dress,” he offered, as he did every day. He went to the hook on the wall where her garments hung and brought them back to where she stood. Laying the dress on the bed, he started with the petticoat. She lifted her arms like a supplicant, and he drew the fabric over her head. He repeated his movements with the dress, and once she settled the garment around her slender frame, he laced it closed, tucking the ends inside when he finished.

  She smoothed her hands over the skirt. “Thank you. While my wardrobe is too large, I do miss the variety. I’m a bit sick of this gown.”

  “You have another, do you not?”

  “Just one, yes.”

  “Then I shan’t worry about getting you wet.”

  “Not too wet,” she cautioned, her blue eyes sparkling. “I don’t have another petticoat or corset, and I don’t want this gown to be wet when we depart tomorrow.”

  If they were able to depart tomorrow. No, he wouldn’t think of that. Anyway, weren’t there worse things than being trapped with a beautiful young woman whose company he enjoyed more than anyone he’d met in the past two years?

  She sat down and put on her stockings and half boots while he shrugged into his coat. He waited near the fire as she wound her braid into a circlet at the back of her head, using her discarded pins from yesterday. The glass hung near the hearth, and when she finished, she pivoted toward him.

  “You look beautiful.” He’d thought the words every morning of their journey, but today was the first time he said them.

  She blushed and looked at the fire. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  They grabbed their cloaks, hats, and gloves and went downstairs to the common room. Only Mr. Taft and the two boys were present.

  “Slow down, Matthias, the snow will still be there.” The man chuckled as his younger son continued to shovel food into his mouth. Simon remembered what it felt like to be a boy filled with excitement for the day ahead. There was nothing else, just the very next thing. It was an excellent metaphor for the life he’d been living the past two years. Minus the excitement, of course.

  This time with Diana was the most forethought he’d given to much of anything, save the house party he’d attended last fall with Nick. He glanced over at his companion.

  That event had ended poorly, at least for him. During an excursion to St. Andrew’s Cathedral in Wells, Nick’s fiancée—well, his other fiancée—Violet, had tripped and fallen. Because she’d been alone with Simon, everyone had assumed the worst. Or so it had seemed. Simon hadn’t stayed to find out. He’d fled the cathedral, returned to the house, packed his things, and departed immediately.

  What had Diana thought of that? He shouldn’t ask, but he was always perversely interested in what people said of him. Probably, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, because you keep hoping something will finally be kind.

  He guided her to the table where they’d had dinner last night. Mrs. Woodlawn came over directly with tea and toast. “I’ll bring some ham, kippers, and some eggs.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said while Diana poured. She’d taken to drinking tea with him at all times of day, thou
gh she’d also sipped a sherry or two. He didn’t fault her for it. He was humbled that she sought to join him at all.

  “Were people surprised when I left the house party this past fall?” Apparently, he wasn’t able to contain himself. He was, as his mother had told him after his father’s death, weak.

  She looked up at him in shock, blinking after a brief pause. “Surprised? I don’t think that’s the proper way to characterize it.”

  When she didn’t offer the proper way, his curiosity got the better of him. “And how was that?” She blanched, and he realized he knew. He picked up his teacup in a show of nonchalance lest she think he was upset—he wasn’t. This was what he’d become accustomed to. “They were relieved to be rid of me finally. I’m sure they blamed me quite thoroughly for Lady Pendleton’s tumble.”

  Except being accustomed to people thinking the worst of him was nothing compared to actually having the worst happen. Again. One moment, Lady Pendleton had hold of his arm, and the next, she was gone, sprawling beside him while he did nothing but gape in horror.

  The vision of his wife at the bottom of the stairs, her body broken, filled his head now as it had then. It was the only thing he remembered from that night aside from holding her and begging her to live. His hand began to shake, and he hurriedly put his teacup back down.

  “She wouldn’t let them,” Diana said. “Lady Pendleton was quite vocal in her defense of you. And of course the Duke of Kilve supported her.” She looked at him squarely. “I didn’t believe it. Neither did my friends.”

  No, the younger set had been quite genial. Maybe, in time, people would forgive him. Not that it really mattered since he would never forgive himself.

  “That’s kind of you.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “What Lady Nixon and Mrs. Law fail to realize is that every time they say something about someone, we younger people are inclined to believe the opposite. That is, the younger people with sense. They’re horrid old hags.”

  Simon barked with laughter. He couldn’t help himself. It was the most he’d ever seen Diana let down her guard. “Is that what you called them?”

  She sat back and picked up her tea. “Among other things.” She arched a brow before she took a sip, and though the cup blocked her mouth, he suspected she was smiling.

  “I like this side of you.” And upstairs she’d said she wanted to have a snowball fight. This was a Diana he hadn’t seen, a Diana he doubted anyone had seen. He felt privileged to spend time with her.

  “Now, about this snowball fight,” Simon began.

  Mrs. Woodlawn interrupted them with the arrival of their breakfast. “Did I hear you say snowball fight? The Taft boys will be thrilled. They’ve been discussing having one all morning.”

  Simon tensed, and the despondent feeling he’d battled all last night during dinner while the Taft family taunted him from the center of the room came rushing back over him. It was impossible to look at them, especially the young girl, without thinking of Miriam and their child. He’d no idea what she was carrying, of course, but he’d been confident the baby was a girl. With shining honey curls and pale gray eyes like her mother.

  They aren’t your children.

  No, but they could be. He wanted them to be. Not them, of course, but he wanted children. He’d wanted Miriam’s children. His heart ached, and his throat burned for a quick moment.

  He coughed lightly as he got a handle on his emotions. “Then we’ll have to make sure they get one.” He smiled up at Mrs. Woodlawn, who grinned in response.

  After she was gone, Diana’s brows pitched low over her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Do what?” He sliced into the tender ham.

  “You also don’t have to be obtuse,” she said lightly. “It won’t bother you to spend time with the children?”

  It might. But he was determined to rise to the challenge—and emerge victorious. “It will be good for me. I think,” he added quietly before shoving a too-large bite of ham into his mouth.

  When they were nearly done with breakfast, Mrs. Woodlawn returned with a blanket. “This is for you to wear outside while you watch the snowball fight.”

  “Oh, I’m not watching,” Diana said with a fair amount of grit. “I’m participating.”

  Mrs. Woodlawn’s eyes widened. “I see. Well, then I know who I’m cheering for.” She winked at Diana as she folded the blanket over the back of Diana’s chair.

  Diana sat forward until the wool was situated, then thanked Mrs. Woodlawn for her thoughtfulness.

  A moment later, the younger Taft boy came over to their table. He had dark brown eyes and sandy-colored hair—the kind that had probably been nearly white when he was born but darkened over time. Simon’s had been that way. “I’m Matthias. Mrs. Woodlawn says you’re going to throw snowballs with us. Is that true?”

  “It is. Have you ever made a snowball?” Simon asked.

  The boy shook his head. “Is it hard?”

  “It depends on the snow. We’ll have to see what it’s like.”

  “Let’s go now.” Matthias reached for his hand, which Simon had rested on the edge of the table. His inclination was to withdraw, but he steeled himself for the boy’s touch.

  Simon’s gaze flicked toward Diana. She was watching him with the hint of a smile lighting her eyes.

  “I suppose I’ve had enough breakfast,” Simon said.

  “Matthias!” Mr. Taft came to the table and took the boy’s other hand, prompting Matthias to let Simon’s hand go. The father looked at Simon apologetically. “He’s yet to learn all his manners.”

  “I think his manners are just fine,” Simon said. He looked over at Diana. “We were just about to go outside for a snowball fight.” She nodded slightly, encouraging him. He returned his attention to Mr. Taft. “I know Matthias is keen to join us. I hope you will too. And your other boy.” Simon stared past the man at the older boy, who was now finishing the rest of the food on his brother’s plate.

  “They’d like that,” Taft said. “I’ll just fetch Jonathan.”

  Diana put on her hat, then rose, picking up her gloves, which she donned. Simon did the same after getting to his feet. “Come, Matthias. I’m Mr. Byrd, and this is my wife, Mrs. Byrd.”

  “I like birds,” Matthias said. “There’s a harrier nest in a tree near our house. I like to watch them hunt.”

  “I’m sure that’s quite exciting.” Simon moved to help Diana with her cloak and then arrange the blanket over her shoulders. Not that she needed his assistance. He realized he was simply looking for a reason to touch her—or almost touch her, as it were.

  While they’d dined, the other guests had come down to the common room, save Mrs. Taft and her daughter. They arrived at that moment, just as Simon opened the door.

  The chilly air swept over him, and he shivered slightly. It was quite cold. Their snowball fight was going to be short-lived. They’d best make it memorable, then.

  “Are you ready, Master Jonathan?” Simon asked.

  The older boy jumped up from the table, and he and his father moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Mrs. Taft asked. The high pitch of her tone seemed to indicate she wasn’t in favor of this excursion.

  Mr. Taft waved them on. “Go ahead. I’ll be out shortly.

  Simon didn’t linger to watch the parents discuss the issue. He ushered Diana and the boys outside into the gray morning.

  Not gray, precisely, because the white snow lent a brightness that wouldn’t have been there otherwise. The blanket of white was pristine and perfect.

  And then the Taft boys ran out into the yard, spoiling the flawlessness. Simon laughed.

  “What?” Diana huddled beneath her blanket.

  “I just remember what it was like to be that age.” Carefree and invincible. As if nothing could harm him. “Are you sure you want to do this? You look to be freezing.”

  “I am. But I’m not letting this opportunity pass me by.”


  “We won’t take too long. It is rather cold, and I’m confident it will start snowing again soon.”

  She looked up at the sky and winced. “Then let’s hurry.”

  “How is this snow, Mr. Byrd?” Matthias asked.

  Jonathan shook his head at his brother. “It’s cold and wet, silly.” He bent down and scooped up a handful, which he immediately tossed at his brother, hitting him in the shoulder.

  “That wasn’t a snowball!” Matthias said. “Only snowballs. Papa said!”

  Simon went farther into the yard where the boys were facing off against each other. “You have to listen to your father.”

  Matthias pointed at his brother, his small face haughty. “I don’t want to be on his side.”

  “I don’t want to be on your side either.” Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest.

  “He’s on my side.” Matthias jabbed his thumb toward Simon.

  Jonathan opened his mouth, likely to protest, but their father joined them just then. “I’ll be on your side, Jon.” Matthias immediately pouted, and Mr. Taft shrugged. “It’s only fair, Matthias. I daresay Mr. Byrd may be better at this than me.”

  Jonathan looked horrified. “He can’t be, Papa.”

  A feminine cough drew them all to turn.

  “What about me?” Diana asked. “What team am I on?”

  “Ours.” Jonathan stared smugly at his brother.

  “No fair,” Matthias whined. “They have more people.”

  “I’ll be on your team,” one of the Pickford gentleman—the elder of the two—offered. Matthias stuck his tongue out at his brother.

  “Then what side am I to be on?” the younger Pickford asked. “It will still be lopsided.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t have to participate,” Diana said.

  Simon heard the edge of disappointment in her offer, and even if he hadn’t, he wasn’t going to let her bow out. “Of course you do. We’ll find someone else to join us.” He looked at the younger Pickford. “Whose side?”

  “It seems to be brother against brother.” He winked at Jonathan. “I’ll be on theirs.”