For Love of the Duke (The Heart of a Duke #1)(4)

Katherine looked at the pendant, and her heart paused at the implausibility of it all. She reached for it wordlessly, and studied the golden bauble, turning it over in her fingers. “It is perfect,” she said, quietly.

The peddler grunted, and held her hand out.

Katherine blinked, looking down at her open palm. “Oh,” she said, and reached into the front of her reticule and withdrew several coins.

The woman’s eyes widened at the small fortune Katherine bestowed.

“It is a fine piece, indeed,” Katherine murmured. There had been a time when Katherine had lain awake in bed, gripped by fear of her family’s dire financial straits. If she could prevent another woman from feeling those sentiments, even for just a bit, then a sovereign was a very, very small price to pay for the pendant.

“There is a story behind that heart, moi lady.”

Katherine slipped the heart into her reticule. “I’m certain there is,” she said. “Thank you very much.” And before the peddler could finish, Katherine stepped outside. Over the years she’d listened rather patiently to her sister’s fanciful musings about love, she’d not have to hear the foolish words of a stranger, too.

A blast of cool wind slapped at her skin. Katherine gasped as the frigid breeze sucked the air from her lungs. Her reticule fell from her fingers and skidded along the frozen surface.

“Drat,” she muttered, and hurried after it. Katherine took a step, when the flat sole of her kid leather boot slipped on the snowflakes coating the frozen river. She threw her arms wide to balance herself as she slid away from the lone little tent, past her reticule, ever farther.

Craaaaack.

She swallowed hard. Her heart hung suspended in her breast, and then the ice opened up.





2



There was not much Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge, detested more than the Christmastide season. His mouth tightened as he scanned the merry frolickers skating upon the river, and others moving in and out of the cluttered tents filled with unnecessary fripperies.

There was not much more he detested than Christmastide… however, the inane amusements enjoyed by the ton, was certainly very close.

The Marquess of Guilford stuck his elbow into Jasper’s side. “Must you look so severe? You’ll scare a small child with that icy, ducal stare of yours.”

Jasper continued walking. “I do not see any small children,” he said in clipped tones that would have sent most grown men scurrying.

Having known one another since their early years at Eton, Jasper noticed the Marquess of Guilford was the only individual of his acquaintance who seemed undaunted by his presence. “Very well, then. You frightened that young woman off.”

Jasper thought of the tart-mouthed, fiery-eyed miss who’d stumbled into him.

“She was not scared.” The plain young woman with her brown ringlets didn’t take him as one to scare easily—mores the fool was she. The nameless creature should have sensed the peril in merely crossing in front of him.

Guilford chuckled and slapped Jasper on the back hard. “Come, Bainbridge. It is nearly Christmas, a time of merriment and joy.” He gave Jasper a long look. “You cannot be miserable forever.”

Except Jasper hadn’t been miserable forever. He’d been miserable for three, very nearly four years. He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists at his side, as he absently studied the rustic enjoyment being had by the lords and ladies upon the ice.

Laughter carried on the crisp winter wind and surrounded Jasper, mocking him, taunting him for having once been happy, and as lighthearted as the fools at the fair.

“Bainbridge,” Guilford said quietly, all traces of amusement gone from his tone.

Jasper shrugged his shoulders. “It is fine,” he bit out.

Another round of laughter in the distance punctuated his words, a jeering testament to his lie.

He felt Guilford’s stare on him, and stiffened under the scrutiny. Then, Guilford said, “It will serve you well to escape that bleak, dark castle you call home.”

The bleak, dark castle as Guilford referred to it was in fact, Castle Blackwood, Jasper's ducal seat, a Norman castle. Significant portions of the original medieval structure remained, including five towers. Imposing, dark, and menacing, it rather suited Jasper’s foul mood.

He balled his hands into fists. Then, it hadn’t always been that way. At one time there’d been laughter and joy and cheer within the castle walls.

“Bainbridge? Are you all right?”

Jasper shook his head. “Foolish taking part in such inane amusements,” he said, his tone harsh and guttural.

Guilford’s patent grin was back in place. He slapped Jasper on the back once again. “Perhaps. But it is Christmastide and the time for inane amusements.”

Jasper grunted and fell reluctantly into step beside Guilford. He kept his hard-stare trained forward, not sparing so much as a sideways glance at the brightly colored tents and the eager young ladies moving between them to purchase their fripperies.

“Egads, man, must you scowl so?”

“Yes,” Jasper bit out.

His friend rubbed his gloved hands together, as though trying to infuse warmth into the frozen digits. Served the blighter right for forcing him back into this very public setting. “Ah, just a moment.” Guilford stopped beside a tent. He pulled several coins out of his pocket and approached an old man. Passing the coins to the vendor, Guilford accepted two tankards of ale.