For Love of the Duke (The Heart of a Duke #1)(5)

“I don’t want ale,” Jasper snapped, when his friend pushed the glass into his hand.

“Drink it. If for no other reason than it will warm you.”

“I’m not cold.”

Guilford snorted. “You’re always cold. A frigid, icy man, and you’ve been that way as long as I’ve known you.”

Yes, Jasper hadn’t ever been the laughing, carefree boy. Born to a loveless marriage between two unfaithful parents, Jasper had scoffed at the empty sentiment called love—until he’d met Lady Lydia Wilkes. A smiling, bright-eyed debutante, she’d captivated him, melted his chilled heart.

A muscle in the corner of his eye twitched. And how had he repaid that great gift she’d shown him? By killing her. Oh God, the muscles in his stomach tightened. The pain of her loss, a pain he’d thought he’d finally buried with her cold, dead body, mocked him for daring to think he’d ever be rid of the pain.

He shook his head. He’d not be melancholy. Lydia was—dead. Dead. Forever gone. He lashed himself with the reminder of it. His lips twisted. As though he could ever truly forget.

Jasper raised the ale to his lips, and downed it in one long, slow, steady swallow. The brew did little to thaw the cold ice that now moved through his veins. From over the rim of his glass he spied the too plain young lady who’d walked into him. With her nondescript brown hair and brown eyes, she was a foil to Lydia’s golden blonde ringlets and pale porcelain skin. There was nothing at all captivating about the fiery-eyed vixen who’d glared at him.

“She is rather lovely,” Guilford murmured at his elbow.

Jasper gave his head a curt shake. “Hardly the type of creature to ever be considered a true beauty.”

“Goodness, you are in an even blacker mood than usual,” his friend chided.

Jasper handed his tankard off to the vendor and continued walking.

Guilford hurried his step to match his stride. “Perhaps we might inspect the peddlers’ goods?”

To what end? Jasper had no family. Born the only child to the late Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge, the nearest relative was a distant gentleman on his great-great-great grandfather’s side, who resided in Northumberland. Jasper couldn’t be more different than Guilford, who had a mother, three sisters, and one brother. He motioned to the tents. “I’ll remain here and,” his lip pulled back, “enjoy the festivities while you see to the fripperies inside the tent.”

Guilford opened his mouth, and then closed it. He shook his head, dislodging his top hat. He readjusted it back into place. “I’ll be just a moment.” With that he hurried ahead to a canary yellow tent.

Jasper fought back a yawn of tedium, and continued to survey the tableau with disinterest. Ladies clinging to their suitors’ arms as they skated upon the thick surface of the frozen river, peddlers barking their wares at the passing nobles. The strangers’ echoing words, empty and meaningless.

His gaze caught sight of the young lady who’d stumbled into him mere moments ago. She hurried outside of a grey tent removed from the bustling activity throughout the fair. A gust of wind tugged free her bonnet, and released several of her brown ringlets into the cool, winter wind. They whipped about her face, and with her high-cheeks and an almost catlike slant to her eyes, she had the look of a kind of ice princess. He frowned, thinking of her frigid stare. Yes, ice princess was an apt moniker for the young lady.

With the serious set to her face, she was vastly different than the young ladies he remembered from three years ago. Something slipped from her fingers and slid along the ice. Tired of studying the nameless creature, Jasper glanced over to the tent Guilford had disappeared into.

A blood curdling scream rent the still winter air. The ungodly cry sent the kestrels noisily into flight; and gooseflesh dotted Jasper’s skin. With an intuitiveness born of a man who’d witnessed and experienced horrific things in life, Jasper immediately sought the nameless ice princess.

Time stood still for an infinitesimal moment that seemed to stretch to eternity, and then with a curse, Jasper sprinted down the river toward the gaping hole in the ice. He cursed the slippery surface that slowed his pace, and then tossing aside his cloak, skidded toward the desperate arms flailing through the surface.

Jasper slid forward upon his stomach, arms extended. “Take my hand,” he barked, as the woman’s head broke through the water.

She sucked in deep, panicky, gasped breaths. Unholy terror lit her eyes; the kind of eyes that had stared into the face of death and knew death would inevitably prevail.

Jasper cursed. “Listen to me,” he snapped.

Her brown eyes locked on his. Her bonnet hung sopping down the side of her tangled mat of brown curls. “Help,” she rasped, and then her skirts tugged her downward.

Jasper’s stomach lurched, and with another curse he inched ever closer. The thin ice cracked under his weight. He made one desperate grab and connected with her hand, tugging her up to the surface.

“Listen to me,” he ordered, his tone harsh and hard. “Do not fight me. Allow me to pull you up.”

Something in either his words or tone penetrated her fear, calming her, for the panic dimmed in her eyes, and she nodded.

Jasper pulled her soaking wet form, tugging her up, up, up, and then her slim frame broke the surface of the shattered ice.

Short of breath from his exertions, Jasper registered the ice’s protest to their efforts, and he found a last surge of energy to edge back, back, ever farther with the young lady and her heavy skirts held close to his chest.