The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
the color from her knuckles. “You misunderstand me, Your Grace.” Her amber eyes swept boldly over him. “I was going to say, you are a coward.”
Chapter 3
And a liar, Erica wanted to add, but a rare flash of self-preservation kept her tongue in her mouth. Tristan Laurens, indeed! Although…
At the wedding ceremony joining her sister to the Marquess of Ashborough, she’d learned one thing. Noblemen were saddled with a long string of names that were almost never used, not even in the family. Vaguely, she’d wondered whether such a man might even forget a few of them. Perhaps the Duke of—what was it he’d said? Ah, yes. Raynham—had a similar litany that included the name Tristan. Tristan, whose father had been fond of the stories of King Arthur and his knights…
What rubbish!
Over the plodding steps of the mare, who followed her dutifully though the reins had fallen slack in Erica’s hand, she heard the splash-stomp of a man’s booted tread. “A coward, did you say? Explain yourself, Miss Burke.”
Did he ever ask? Plead, cajole, beg? She would hear him barking out orders in her sleep tonight.
“And if I won’t, Your Grace? Ah, but I forgot. Your sort considers it a matter of pride to answer an insult. Or is it a matter of honor? Oh, dear. Will you challenge me to a duel, then?” She whirled on him so fast she nearly lost her footing in the mud. “Before you speak, you ought to know my younger brother taught me to shoot, and I almost never miss.”
She tried to convince herself he didn’t look like a duke, standing there covered head to toe in mud, overlong hair plastered to his brow and neck, rain tracing glittering tracks through the scruff of his beard. Yet even through the dirt, his bearing radiated power, authority, control. As did his eyes, which at this distance were black and hard as mica chips. “You almost never…” he repeated, incredulous. “Stop spouting nonsense, Miss Burke. If you can.”
As he spoke he continued to stride toward her, and on the last three words he stopped just inches away. Perhaps his eyes really were black. At the moment, not even a sliver of color rimmed his flared pupils. His breath formed little puffs of steam in the chilled air, putting her strongly in mind of a cartoon sketch of a raging bull.
The fingertips of her free hand drove into his breastbone. “Only a coward would have kept his true identity a secret. Did you imagine if I had known who you were, I would have used last night’s unfortunate circumstance to my benefit? Let’s see…a young woman, stranded overnight with an eligible gentleman…ought I to expect an offer of marriage?” At that, his jaw actually fell open. “Silly me, I thought only to shelter from the storm. And for that matter,” she went on, lifting her fingers for the satisfaction of thrusting them forward again with the next point, “why on earth were you there to begin with? You might have reached your home easily before the heaviest rain began to fall. Only a coward would have chosen that tumble-down shack over the risk of getting wet.”
“Have a care, Miss Burke.” In a flash, his hand came up and pinned hers flat to his chest. A wall of muscle and bone leaped to life under her touch. Were pampered, privileged noblemen usually so wonderfully…hard? “I am—”
But whatever he was remained unspoken. Lady Jane stamped and snorted, heralding the arrival of another set of footsteps.
“Raynham? Is that you?” The man spoke with a strong Scottish accent that carried through the rain as he trudged up the hill from the direction of the gatehouse. He was neatly dressed, bespectacled, and carrying an umbrella.
“Mr. Davies.” The duke dropped his hold on her hand and leaned forward to extend his in greeting. “What brings you out in this weather?”
The man stopped a few feet from them and bowed his head crisply; he made no attempt to shake hands. After holding his own position a moment too long, the duke jerked himself upright, as if a fishhook had caught him in the spine. “Her Grace asked me to keep a lookout,” Mr. Davies said. He looked to be her father’s age, or thereabouts. His clothes, his complexion, everything about him bespoke the sort of person who performed his most important work behind a desk. And everything about his current demeanor suggested he toiled behind that desk at the behest of the man standing before him. Even the rain seemed to make him nervous. He fumbled with his umbrella as if weighing whether or not he should surrender it to the duke.
For a moment, silence fell among them. Mr. Davies glanced at her once out of the corner of his eye but gave no other indication of noting her presence. He seemed to be waiting for the duke to decide whether she merited an introduction.
She dipped into a curtsy, a shallow one. Anything deeper might send her toppling once more into the mud. “I’m Miss Burke,” she said, mustering all the dignity she could.
“Oh, er, pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Burke,” the gentleman stammered and bowed again. “Walter Davies. Raynham’s man of business.” His gaze flicked over her once before lighting somewhere in the vicinity of the duke’s chin.
“I found Miss Burke sheltering in the gardener’s cottage. An unhappy accident separated her from her family, with whom she was traveling to Windermere.”
“’Tis fortunate you rescued her, sir.”
Tristan—she would not go on thinking of him as “the duke”—accepted Mr. Davies’s praise with a stiff nod.
As neither of them showed any sign of consulting her opinion on the matter of the supposed “rescue,” she cleared her throat, drawing both sets of eyes her way. “I wish to be reunited with my sister,” she said. “At the very least, I must get word to her, to let her know where I am.”
“But the rain and the flooding have likely made that impossible,” Tristan interjected smoothly. “I fear the best we can do at the moment is to send a messenger to Endmoor to leave word for her family when they are able to return there.”
Mr. Davies nodded his agreement. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it that a lookout is kept in the village for…for the Burke family, is it?”
Tristan looked at her expectantly.
“Yes—er, no.” For a moment, she had forgotten her sister’s newly acquired title. “My sister is Lady Ashborough.”
“Lady Ashborough?” Mr. Davies exclaimed. “The authoress?”
Erica nodded. “The same, sir.”
Tristan looked from one to the other in open incredulity, but Mr. Davies did not seem to notice. “Oh, The Wild Irish Rose is delightful. I’m no’ sure I can bear it until the next installment is released.” In his excitement, t’s began to drop from his otherwise proper speech. “I dinna suppose you know…?”
“Whether Lord Granville is the villain he seems? Even if I were so fortunate as to know the story’s outcome, I would not dare reveal it, sir. My sister would—” She hesitated. Cami was going to have her head, either way.
“Of course, of course.” Mr. Davies nodded, disappointed but resigned. “You may rest assured, Miss Burke,” he said, “that my son will do all in his power to find her and to set her mind at ease.”
“I would advise him to go on foot rather than risk a horse.” Tristan quickly reclaimed control over the conversation with that commanding tone of his. She doubted he ever offered mere advice. “And tell him to take the eastern path, through the wood. The main road appeared to be under water.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it, Your Grace. Some of Her Grace’s guests told quite a harrowing tale about the state of the roads. And that was well before last night’s rain.”
“Guests?” The echo of that single word hung on the air long after the steam of his breath dissipated.
“Aye,” said Mr. Davies, though the affirmation rose like a question, and his lips gave a nervous twitch. “She planned a grand welcome for you—and here I’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.”
“For