a reflex, like another man’s pulse might speed up in the face of danger. If that was being heartless, so be it. It had advantages that a part of his brain kept cool under all circumstances. Except, apparently, when his brother stabbed into his Achilles’ heel with the precision of Paris himself.
You could have sons . . . why don’t you?
The hour was nearing midnight now, the fire crackling low on the grate, but his brother’s voice still echoed through his study, and it had him reaching for his cigarette case.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled smoke.
Watched through the wafting gray tendrils, Castle Montgomery appeared to come alive on the dark office wall across. It was always misty around the castle. It was a place of shadows and echoes. It had never felt like a home; now it had long become a ball and chain. But duty was duty. One did not lose an ancestral seat in a card game.
Why don’t you?
His brother was an idiot. But he had a point.
He bent and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk.
There glinted the frilly yellow silk case of the diary. It used to have an ornate little lock that had offered no resistance.
He flipped it open.
The sight of the loops and swirls of girlish penmanship tightened his grip on the book. He had read it only once; still, all the relevant words were etched into his memory. But nearly two years on, they might sound different.
12th January, 1878
M officially proposed today. I knew this day would come, it has long been arranged, but I’m strangely torn. A young lady could hardly aspire to more than becoming a duchess. I do want to be a duchess. Mama and Papa are thrilled, of course. But I can’t deny that my heart aches for T. He’s so distraught, begged me to elope, even, and swears he shall love me forever . . . it’s terribly romantic. If it were not for his title, I certainly should never choose the duke. He isn’t romantic at all. He’s awfully quiet and severe, and I’ve never seen him dance. He’s by far the least charming gentleman of the ton . . .
Ah well.
Sebastian dumped the diary back into the drawer.
No need to live through it again word by word when the ending was engraved on his mind anyway. Not six months later, she had run away with the young man she thought she loved. And he hadn’t seen it coming. Ironic, how he excelled at reading people for his dealings in politics, and hadn’t noticed that his own wife had grown bored and resentful, or both, and wouldn’t hesitate to set fire to a powder keg. In fairness, understanding a well-bred woman required nothing short of mind-reading. They were, after all, trained to please and endure with a smile.
And all his options for a wife were the same—ladies trained to please and endure. He had to marry a diamond of the first water, even more so now than before the divorce if only to silence his detractors. He’d never really know if the future duchess was only barely suffering him . . .
A soft scratching sound had him glancing at the door. “Enter.”
Ramsey moved into the room quietly, a silver tray with a note in hand.
“Your Grace. There was a note for you. I’m afraid the delivery was delayed.”
“Who sends it?”
“Miss Archer, Your Grace.”
He straightened in his chair. “How is she?”
“Still rather weak, I understand, still feverish.”
But able to write, that had to be a good sign. Then again, she had tried to debate politics with him while on the verge of fainting. Stubborn woman.
He opened the envelope. “Has my informant sent anything on her yet?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Stubborn, and mysterious.
Her handwriting was not feminine. It was efficient, the hand of a person who wrote a lot, and fast.
Your Grace,
I much appreciate your hospitality and I endeavor to get well as speedily as possible. Thank you for your generous book loan. I am particularly intrigued by the Russian tale on ideological intoxication—a purely incidental choice, I believe?
Sincerely,
A. Archer
Stubborn, mysterious, and witty.
He had sent up books because it was a polite thing to do for a bedridden guest. He had sent those particular books because for some reason, he had known they’d make her think, and her thoughts intrigued him. With her expressive eyes, she was not hard to read, and yet he found her rather unpredictable. Well, one thing was certain—this one would take a