Forbidden to the Duke

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‘Some French, too.’

The older woman nodded. She appraised Bellona. ‘Did you leave behind family in Greece?’

‘None close,’ Bellona said. ‘I have never wed. Marriage. It makes a woman change. And cry. Men are only good for lifting and carrying, much like the bigger animals that do not think well.’

The duke didn’t respond to her deliberate prod.

‘Well, yes, some of them can be,’ the duchess admitted. ‘But marriage is not all bad. Children make you change and cry, too. I do not know what I would have done without my own.’ A wisp of a smile landed on the duchess’s face. ‘My three children were the best things that ever happened to me.’ Then her expression changed with the memory and she began to sniff.

Bellona searched her mind for a distraction. ‘At least I will not have to marry—like His Grace will have to before he gets much older.’

His mother’s sniffle turned into a splutter. Bellona didn’t have to turn her head to know where the duke was looking. She pretended to look like her own thoughts were far away.

‘Yes. He will marry. Of course,’ the duchess said. ‘But that is not for you to discuss, Miss Cherroll.’

‘I hoped that you would call me Bellona.’

‘That is a strange name.’

‘I was named for the Roman goddess of war. I remember that every day.’

‘Perhaps you should put it from your mind. She doesn’t sound like someone appropriate to be named after.’

Bellona shook her head. ‘I’m proud of it. To get to England, I had to flee in the night. Thessa’s suitor chased us.’ She had slept though the final confrontation, unaware of all about her. Earlier, she’d fallen asleep with the rhythm of the ship and woken when her sister had shaken her awake. Thessa’s rapid voice had fallen back into the Greek language while she’d told Bellona how the pirates from their homeland had followed the ship, planning to force the women into marriage.

She thought of what Melina had told her of Almack’s—a marriage mart, her sister had said.

‘Have you ever been pursued, Your Grace?’ She turned to Rhys. He did have her direct in his vision, watching her without censure, but as if she were a very interesting...bee, and he wasn’t afraid of getting stung.

‘Not by a pirate,’ he said. ‘Only by a very unhappy bull.’

‘I’m sure you could escape.’

‘I have managed thus far.’ He glanced at the book again, but even with his eyes averted, she could still feel his attention on her.

‘My poor Geoff,’ the duchess said, ‘he was once chased by an angry dog and I thought—’ Her lip quivered and she reached for a handkerchief.

Bellona did not want the discussion to return to sadness. A slap with words worked as well as one across the face. ‘Reading does appear a good way to waste time. A way for people with no chores to be idle.’

The duchess’s sniff turned into a choke.

She had the older woman’s full attention and Rhys’s book looked to have turned humorous. For little more than a blink, their eyes met. Sunshine suffused her and didn’t go away when he examined the book again.

* * *

After his morning ride, Rhys heard the clock as he strode into his home—the same peals he’d heard his whole life. The sounds didn’t change, but if they clanked about in his ears, he knew the world felt dark. For the first time in a long time, the peals were musical.

His mother had spoken to him repeatedly about the heathen, informing him that the miss was beyond help. Each time she’d recounted the discussion between the two, her voice rose in anger. Not the bare mewl it had been before.

Finally, she’d left her room of her own volition to come and find him to complain with exasperation of having to deal with this motherless child who’d been left too long to her own devices. She’d wondered how he could possibly expect his own mother to correct such a tremendous neglect of education in the woman. ‘It would take years, years,’ she’d explained as she walked away, shaking her head.

He’d quashed his immediate urge to go to Bellonaand pull her into his arms, celebrating with her the rebirth of his mother’s life.

Thoughts of Bellona always caused his mind to catch, wait and peruse every action or word concerning her a little longer. The miss did something inside him. Like a flint sparking against steel. Made him realise that his heart still beat, his life still continued and that some day he’d be able to walk into a room and not be aware of all that was missing, but see what was actually there.

He turned, moving towards the archery target that now stood in the garden beneath the library window.

Disappointment edged into him when he did not find her near the targets she’d had placed about. He went inside the house, thinking of her hair and the way she reminded him of pleasures he did not need to be focusing on right now. As he passed the library door, he heard pages rustling.

He stepped into the library. Stopped. Stared.

She was lying on his sofa. Around her face, her hair haloed her like a frazzled mess, more having escaped from her bun than remained. This was the moment he would have walked to her, splayed his fingers, held her cheeks in both hands and kissed her if...

Ifs were not for dukes, he reminded himself.

She rested stockinged feet on the sofa. Her knees were bent and her skirt raised to her calves while she frowned into a book. His mind tumbled in a hundred directions at once, all of them landing on various places of her body. The woman should not be displaying herself in such a way.

Courtesans did not act so...relaxed and improper. Even the women he’d visited in London—ones without modesty—would have remained much more sedate in daylight hours.

But he remembered his manners. Perhaps he’d erred, not she. She had not heard him enter the room. He took a quiet step back because he did not want to mortify her by letting her know he’d seen her sprawled so indelicately.

But then he saw the books. A good dozen of his most precious books scattered about her. One was even on the carpet. How could she? It was one thing to trespass, another to shoot an arrow at a man, but...the books...

Books were to be treated as fine jewels—no. Jewels could be tossed about here and there without concern—books were to be treasured, removed from the shelves one at a time, carefully perused and immediately returned to their place of honour. They were made of delicate materials. A nursemaid would not toss a baby here or there and books deserved the same care.

She looked up, swung her stockinged feet to the floor as she sat, dropped the book at her side. Her foot now sat on top of a boot, her skirt hem covering it, as she lowered her hand towards the remaining footwear.

Modesty. Finally. ‘You may dress.’ He turned his back on her slightly, so he would not see if her skirt flipped up while she put on those worn boots. He would have thought Warrington would have done better by her. He would put in a word to see that she had decent indoor shoes.

He heard a thump and the sound of pages fluttering.

‘I cannot read this—this—’

From the corner of his eye, he saw the title of one of his father’s favourite volumes disgracefully on the floor. He pressed his lips together and gave himself a moment. ‘Why are you in the library since you disregard reading?’ he finally asked.

‘Your mother has insisted I pick a book, study it,’ she muttered, ‘and be able to speak about it. She is punishing me.’

He heard the sound of her fidgeting about and then silence. He turned.

She glared at him, but she only had one boot on and she held the other in her lap, her right hand resting on it.

‘I do not think I like your mother,’ she continued. ‘The duchess told the servant who stores my bow I am not to have it. The servants are afraid to disobey her.’ She stared at him. ‘The duchess said it is good for me to learn to read English. That I should not be unleashed on society