“How sad for Mrs. Stewart.”
A look of wonder warmed Mary’s face. “I don’t think she cares. In all of the holidays and summers I’ve spent with the Stewarts, I never once saw Mrs. Stewart get even one drop of rain on her, nor one gust of wind disorder her hair. If it was windy, Mr. Stewart made certain his wife traveled in a closed carriage with the curtains fastened. If it was raining, he held an umbrella over her head, refusing to allow the footman to do it. If the sun shone, he carried her parasol. If she was hungry, he immediately set about organizing dinner. If she was ill, he called the doctor and then sat beside her until she was better. Everywhere they go, everything they do, he makes certain she’s safe, warm, and well.” Mary’s face held a touch of amazement. “If that’s not love, then what is?”
Dahlia blinked. Up until now, she’d thought all of the shortcomings in her failed relationship with Kirk came from his lack of romantic appreciation. But was Mary right? Was some of the fault hers? Were her expectations unrealistic? At any time, had she taken into account Kirk’s other attributes? Or was she too focused on one thing only: her own desire for romance?
The entire situation was too complicated for her fuzzy mind to understand. Despite her bone-deep weariness, a brisk walk seemed even more appealing. Perhaps she would recover her clarity of thought then.
She smiled at Mary. “Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Mary’s return smile was wistful. “One day, I would like to meet a man who wants to hold my umbrella.”
Miss Stewart stirred and then plucked at the blankets. “Is there another pillow? I’d like to sit up.”
Mary hurried to see to the patient’s comfort, and Dahlia took the opportunity to slip away. Back in her own familiar bedchamber, she fetched her pelisse and—after a quick glance outside at the windy, gray day—her cloak, refusing to even look at the inviting bed. With a scone tucked into her pocket from a tray Freya had left for her, Dahlia hurried down to the foyer.
She walked past the ballroom where the great tree sat alone. Draped in silver, it reminded her that her time at the duchess’s was growing shorter. In just a few days, with the remaining guests in attendance, the great Christmas Ball would be held, and then . . . that was it. She would be returning home, older but not any closer to finding what she’d been wanting.
She reached the foyer and smiled at the footman who jumped forward to open the door. Instantly, the bitter wind grabbed her cloak and swirled it about her ankles. She shivered and pulled the hood over her head as she stepped outside, then glanced up at the gray, swirling clouds. She’d definitely make it a quick walk.
Shivering, she tucked her gloved hands into her pockets and, head bent against the wind, she continued on. She’d just turned onto the gravel path that skirted the formal gardens when the creak of a gate caught her attention. She looked up as a man dressed in the black broadcloth suit of a gentleman’s gentleman came out, something hanging over his arm. Dahlia recognized him, as Freya had pointed him out to her once. Kirk’s valet. I wonder where he’s going?
As she watched, the man hurried down the path to the stable and then entered, a golden spill of light briefly illuminating the cobblestone yard before the door closed. A valet in the stable. That is odd.
Dahlia found herself walking in that direction, and she soon heard a cacophony of voices raised in excitement. Were the servants having a dance, perhaps? She tilted her head to one side and listened, but she could hear no music.
As she neared the doorway she could make out a chorus of male voices raised in calls, along with— She frowned. Was that the thump of a fist? Goodness, but it sounded like a prizefight!
Her curiosity as hot as the air was cold, she tiptoed toward the wide doors that were partially ajar. Reaching the doors, she gave a quick glance around, then peeked inside.
A group of men—stable hands and grooms, judging by their clothing—stood in a half circle. In the center a sack of grain hung from the rafter on a thick rope. The valet stood to one side, a robe hung over his arm as he watched a man who was stripped to the waist pummel the hanging bag like a prizefighter, his cloth-wrapped fists slamming into the bag over and over, puffs of wheat dust filtering through the air with each hit. The valet watched intently, occasionally giving curt instructions, as the other men yelled at every especially brutal hit.
Whose groom could he be? His bare back glistened with sweat as he attacked the sack again and again, pummeling it with a fury that made her gasp. He was very fit, his muscles gleaming in the glow of the lamps. Though it was quite unladylike, she admired his physique as he cocked back his muscled arm and threw a hard punch that sent the grain sack reeling away, only to swing back as if in retaliation.
The man pivoted out of the way awkwardly, moving as if his leg were stiff—
Dahlia blinked. Kirk?
As if he could hear her, he turned to say something to the valet, and his profile confirmed her suspicions.
What was Kirk doing in a stable, feinting and pounding the bag of grain as if his life depended on it? Dahlia could only look . . . and look again, held in place with amazement.
He lifted his fists and a burly man set the bag in motion. Kirk threw another punch at the swinging bag, catching it on one side, which sent it spinning away and then back. Each hit set the bag in motion, which required him to dodge and duck. Then he’d hit it again.
He’d successfully landed dozens of hits when, after a particularly punishing thump, the sack of grain spun wildly about and then hit him in the shoulder.
Dahlia gasped as Kirk went reeling. He staggered to one side, landing on his weak leg. It was all Dahlia could do not to yell for someone to help him. Can’t they see he is in pain?
A groom started to move toward him, but Kirk’s valet grabbed the man’s arm and refused to allow any assistance. What is that man doing?
Kirk wobbled a moment more, and then fell heavily to the ground. The other men fell quiet as he rolled to his side, straw and dirt stuck to his damp skin. But then, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, he grabbed a nearby stall door and levered himself to his feet, saying something to the men that made them all laugh heartily.
Her heart ached. The grooms didn’t understand how much this cost him, but she did. He has so much pride. Why is he doing this? What does he have to gain?
Apparently Kirk was done for the day. Leg held stiffly to one side, Kirk found a small stool and limped to it, and then sat down. He rubbed his leg with both hands, his face damp with sweat and pain. The grooms, seeing their entertainment was over, called out a few congratulations and then wandered off to attend to their duties, leaving the two men alone near the door.
Dahlia wished she could hear them, but she was too far away. She stepped back from the stable doors and looked around. A large shuttered window was latched a bit farther down; perhaps she could hear better there. Holding her cape about her, the wind whipping her skirts around her legs, she made her way to the window and peered through the wide cracks between the shutters.
“Ye did verrah weel, me lor’.” The valet lifted a bucket of water that sat nearby and handed it to Kirk.
“Thanks. As you warned, it hurts like hell, but it’s getting more flexible.” Kirk lifted the bucket and poured the water over his head.
Dahlia’s mouth went dry as the water flowed over Kirk’s head to his muscled shoulders and back. She remembered the feel of those muscles under her fingers, the warmth of that skin— She shivered with something other than cold and leaned closer to the window.
“Och, ye did verrah, verrah weel today, me lor’. Ye should be proud.”
“I’ll be prouder when I can move quickly enough to keep from getting knocked down.” He accepted a small hand towel from the valet and wiped his face. As he did so, the valet moved and the lantern bathed Kirk’s body in gold light.
Dahlia found herself leaning forward, her face almost pressed to the shutters. Her gaze traveled over Kirk’s broad back to where his wa
ter-soaked britches clung so lovingly to his muscular bottom and thighs, an odd breathlessness holding her in its thrall. Suddenly, it seemed very unfortunate that their encounter in the billiards room hadn’t been long enough for more exploring.
The valet pulled a larger towel from where it had been hanging over the edge of a stable door and handed it to his master. “How’s the pain, me lor’? Less than yesterday?”
“Some. The hot wraps you put on it last night helped.” Kirk dried his hair, shoulders, and arms. “Although it still feels as if someone stuck it with a hot knife.”
“Aye, but look at how ye were dodgin’ and divin’. Ye couldna do neither two weeks ago.”
“True. My leg is much more limber. Though the work is painful, it’ll be worth it. ‘Optimum quad premium: That is best, which is first.’ ”
“An’ ye wish t’ be first?”
“I already was. Now I just have to stay there.”
What does that mean? Dahlia pressed closer to the shuttered window. Why is he putting himself through this?
A stable boy led a large bay right in front of the window, blocking Dahlia’s view, so she moved two windows down. She could still see, but she couldn’t hear a word now.
Perhaps Kirk wishes to ride again.
Dahlia watched as the valet placed the robe over Kirk’s shoulders and they began to talk earnestly, looking at the swinging bag of wheat. The entire time, Kirk continued to rub his knee.
She frowned. What was he thinking, engaging in an activity that put so much pressure upon his leg? But Kirk’s expression held her. Though he winced when he stood and put weight on his leg, he also had a pleased glow to his face.
Kirk pulled on his robe, the silk clinging to his damp skin. When he tied the belt around his narrow waist, the robe outlined every delectable muscle. Dahlia’s heart thudded an extra beat, her breasts tingling as she imagined peeling Kirk’s silk robe from his shoulders, of kissing his broad chest, of stroking every bit of his muscled frame and—
She caught her unruly imagination, her blood heated nigh until boiling even though her teeth were nearly chattering. For all of his flaws, he’s a magnificent-looking man. But it’s more than that. He’s intelligent, quick-witted, painfully honest, and sensual in ways I’ve never imagined. It’s no wonder I care for him. He’s— She blinked. I do care for him. And . . . even more than care. I think I love him.
She pressed her hands to her suddenly pounding head. But I can’t love him—not when he merely thinks of me as compatible. I can’t be the only one who loves.
Her thoughts jumbled, she blindly turned from the window. I need to think, to understand how this happened. Her throat tight, she strode up the path toward the moors.
Eighteen
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
And now the weather has turned. What else can possibly go wrong? Oh, wretched Christmas Ball! I had such hopes . . .
* * *
Cane in hand, Kirk strode from the stables, the icy wind stealing his breath. His progress should have cheered him, but since his argument with Dahlia he’d been miserable. And not just a little, but thoroughly, deeply, troublingly so.
Everything he ate tasted like sawdust, every joke he heard was unfunny, every activity proposed for the guests’ amusement sounded dull and repulsive. Never in all of his life had he ever felt so low. All he could do was think about his last conversation with Dahlia and suffer his own regrets in silence.
It might have helped if he’d been able to speak to her, but since their disastrous argument, she’d been locked away helping with Miss Stewart.
He’d heard this morning that Miss Stewart was much improved, and for the first time in three days, his heart had lightened. He and Dahlia had to talk, and they couldn’t do it if they never saw each other. He wasn’t certain they could find a solution, but he couldn’t bear for things to stay the way they were now. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being unhappy, of her gray-blue eyes filled with tears, as they’d been the last time he’d seen her. That image tormented him, disturbed his sleep and thoughts until he felt he might go mad with it.
A coach rolled past and he watched it. Yet another fleeing guest, he supposed. There were few enough of them left. He made his way into the castle, where he was greeted by four footmen and a herd of yapping pugs.
He glared at the dogs. “You are a pack of wild ones.”
Gray-haired Randolph, calmer than the rest, sat off to one side, though his tail waggled crazily.
Kirk nodded his approval. “You know how to behave, don’t you? But the rest of you are disgraces.”
One of the footmen offered, “They’re hopin’ to get to the tree, m’lord. Her grace just closed the doors to the ballroom and refuses to allow them to enter.”
“Why would dogs care about a Christmas tree?”
“They love to grab the silver strings and run off with them. Her grace dinna like tha’, as she worries they might eat them and get sick, so she sets us to watch the beasties.” He suddenly straightened and stared ahead as the butler sailed out of a side hallway.
“Och, me lor’, allow me to take yer coat,” MacDougal said.
“No, thank you. I’d like to keep it on, for I’m not appropriately dressed to meet another guest.” It was almost laughable that he heard himself say such a thing. Good God, he was becoming a dandy.
A burst of wind hit the front of the castle, banging the shutters and sending an icy wisp under the doors. The dogs barked and ran in circles.
“Silence, ye wild beasties!” MacDougal shook his head. “ ’Tis a north wind, me lor’. When they come, they bring us icy rain or snow.”
“Lord Kirk, there you are.” Her grace sailed out of the Blue Salon, dressed in a green gown adorned with a multitude of furbelows. “Just the man I wished to see.”
He bowed. “Your grace. May I help you?”
“Yes. Lady Charlotte and I wish to speak to you.”
“I need to bathe and change my clothes first.”
“Nonsense. Roxburghe rides from dawn until dark and reeks of the stables from the day he arrives until he leaves for London, so I’m quite used to such things. Come. It won’t take a moment.” Without giving him time to speak, she turned and disappeared back into the salon, the pugs falling in behind her.
MacDougal gave Kirk an apologetic look. “She’s been oop since dawn, worryin’ aboot the guests as are leaving. I canno’ blame them, fer the Spanish influenza is naught to treat lightly.”
Kirk nodded. “I’m not leaving. Not unless Miss Balfour does.”
The butler smiled fondly. “Och, she’s no’ goin’ anywhere, is Miss Balfour. She’s a heart as stout as her head.”
“I know. Sadly, she’s set them both against me.”
“Ye think so, me lor’? I was well on me way to thinkin’ she was showin’ herself to be fond o’ ye.”
“If only I were so lucky.” Sending the butler a wry look, Kirk went into the Blue Salon.
At the opposite end of the room, her grace and Lady Charlotte sat at either side of the fire. Her grace was on a settee, one of the pugs in her lap, while Lady Charlotte occupied a plump chair. She was knitting while also trying to read a book that lay open upon her knee, and doing neither particularly well. With every few rows of knitting, her yarn would catch the edge of the book and slide it off her knee.
He bowed. “Your grace. Lady Charlotte.”
Her grace patted the settee beside her. “Come. Sit.” It wasn’t a question.
“I would rather stand, if you don’t mind.”
“I mind. Now come and sit.”
He reluctantly did so. Randolph rose from his place in front of the fire and shuffled to Kirk’s feet, snuffed his boots, and then dropped into a ball across the toes.
“Well?” Lady Charlotte said.
“Well what?”
Her grace sighed. “I don’t have time for nonsense, Kirk. There’s Spanish flu on the loose and my guests are leaving in droves, so pray
cut to the chase and don’t pretend everything is fine between you and Miss Balfour. We know something is wrong.”
He blinked. “Has she said something?”
“Lud, no. Every time we say your name, she just gets quiet, which is quite annoying.” Her grace looked at Charlotte. “I do wish women were more outspoken.”
“Me, too.” Charlotte knitted on.
Kirk sighed. ”Dahlia’s been attending Miss Stewart. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve eyes in our heads,” her grace said sharply.
“Oh yes,” Lady Charlotte said, her book starting to slip. “It’s obvious to everyone that you’re not speaking to each other.”
Randolph looked up as if to agree.
Kirk patted the dog. Should he tell Lady Charlotte and her grace about his mistake? If he was careful, he could explain a portion of the issue. Perhaps they could advise him in how to proceed. God knew, he could use the help. “You’re right; Miss Balfour and I had an argument. She seems to think that something I said was a grievous mistake.”
“A mistake?” Lady Charlotte’s hands couldn’t knit faster. “Another one?”
He almost winced. “I feel maligned.”
Her grace patted his hand where it rested on his knee. “There, there. No need to look so upset. Tell us what happened.”
He sighed and leaned back. “It’s about the poetry reading.”
“Which was lovely,” Lady Charlotte said.
“Very,” her grace agreed. “I thought Dahlia very touched by it.”
“She was,” he agreed. “I did as Lady Charlotte suggested, and changed the eye color mentioned in the poem to match Dahlia’s.”
Her grace beamed at Lady Charlotte. “So that your doing.”
Lady Charlotte blushed. “I thought it would make the reading more personal.”
“Sadly, it did.” He gave a short laugh and raked a hand through his hair. “Dahlia thought the words of the poem were about her, and she responded very warmly.” If he closed his eyes right this second, he could still feel her warmth about him. “Very warmly.”