Chapter 2

"Why did you leave me behind?" Winston hissed angrily. "Do you want them to think you are a wanton with no one to supervise you?"

Rose gritted her teeth so as not to reply.

"Or did you hope to paint me as remiss in my duties?" he continued.

Rose took a deep breath, lifting her chin and ignoring him as much as she could.

In spite of herself, Rose had to admit that she was eager to see this duke who people called ‘beastly'. She'd been too young to follow the gossip when whatever it was had happened that turned Society against him, but she knew he'd fled London, only returning quite recently to help his sister get wed.

Rose was heartily tired of men who existed only to herd women into marriage, and so she already slightly disliked the duke. The ballroom was sparsely decorated, and there was no theme to the ball. Clearly, this duke had banked purely on His Royal Highness's presence to fill the room.

Judging by how slowly the receiving line was going, it seemed he had been right. Everyone who was anyone seemed to be here tonight.

There was only one family in front of them, and then it would be their turn to greet the duke and his sister. Her cousin continued to hiss in her ear the entire time. By the time it was their turn in front of the hosts, she was burning with anger and feared that her face was quite red.

She looked up to see an extremely pretty girl with inky black hair and twinkling blue eyes, giving her a friendly look which quickly turned concerned. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Rose was mortified and ducked her head. "I'm fine. My apologies. The ride was bumpy."

"Oh? Have you come far?" the girl asked.

"Darling, don't you think we should dispense with introductions before you ask the young lady her life story?" an amused voice asked.

Rose looked up to see an older gentleman, gently graying on his sideburns, smiling fondly at the girl. She beamed at him and nodded. "Yes, Uncle, you're quite right." She looked expectantly at the butler, who dutifully read from the card Winston handed him.

"May I present the Marquess of Handers and his cousin, Lady Rose Keats."

Rose curtsied correctly even as the older man frowned. "I was under the impression that the Marquess was an older gentleman?"

Rose felt a pang of pain.

"Oh, that would be Rose's father," Winston hastened to explain. "He died six months ago. I'm the new Marquess."

The man frowned and nodded to Rose. "My condolences."

She lowered her lashes to cover her eyes. "Thank you." she said softly.

"Sadly, the duke has not yet come down, so I cannot introduce him, but I am his uncle, Lord Andrew Warren, the Marquess of Derwent. This is my niece, Lady Portia Warren."

He gestured toward the ballroom. "Welcome. And thank you for coming."

Rose shuffled clumsily into the ballroom, leaving her cousin to gush in effusive thanks at the welcome. She found him to be extremely embarrassing and tried her best to slip away from him by heading toward the benches where the older ladies were sitting, gossiping away as they watched the guests arrive.

She squeezed in with them, knowing she was safe only for a little while. Soon, Winston would come looking for her, demanding that she dance with every man who would fill her dance card. She had no objection to marriage — especially if it took her away from Winston — but the way he went about it was mortifying for her.

She smiled at Lady Wakely, who was sitting next to her, and greeted her, inquiring after her corgis. She'd brought the dogs over with her from Wales when she married an English viscount, and everybody knew how much she doted on them.

Lady Wakely's face lit up. "Oh, they're doing fine, thank you for asking."

Rose nodded, glancing toward the door where the receiving line was petering off. A man stood next to Lady Portia and Lord Andrew, and she soon realized it must be the Duke of Dorrison; he had the same dark hair and striking blue eyes as Lady Portia. And he was strikingly handsome, too.

The duke was smiling in a distant way as he bowed to Lord Colter and his wife before turning to shake the hand of their third son, Ben. He inclined his head to the side, saying something that included his sister, and then grinned as she blushed. Ben gave her an interested look before bowing and trailing off in the wake of his parents.

"Fascinating, is he not?"

Rose jumped and then turned to Lady Wakely, who was watching her with knowing eyes.

So, it is him.

Rose cleared her throat before smiling. "He seems to be. Do…do you know what it is he did to earn his reputation?"

As if she's simply been waiting to be asked, Lady Wakely launched right into the story. "Yes, I do. In fact, I was just talking to Mrs. Prentice about it, refreshing my memories. There were so many stories going around you see."

"Do tell," Rose said, fixing the Viscountess with her entire attention.

"Well…I was but a newlywed at the time, but I heard tell that as a young boy, he was a handful for his parents. They could barely keep him from running wild. Why they say that one time he took one of the hunting shotguns and aimed it at a servant, telling him to run or he'd shoot."

Rose gasped, her eyes widening as she stared at the duke. "Surely not?" she whispered even as she noted the strength in his hands, clasped politely at his back at the moment. They were large hands, and Rose could well imagine them around a shot gun.

"How old was he at the time?" she asked.

"He was not but a wee boy, they say," Lady Wakely said. "But that's just the beginning. Do you know how his parents died?"

Slowly, Rose shook her head.

"Well, apparently, he wanted a new gelding, and they refused him. He threw such a fit at dinner that the servants were terrified and ran off. His father tried to take him in hand, and the duke hit him with a candlestick! Only the candlestick was lit, and it set the late duke's robes ablaze. He was screaming and stumbling about while his son just stood and laughed. His wife came to his aid, but she too — wearing silk robes — caught on fire."

Rose gasped, a hand to her bosom.

"They set the curtains on fire as they burned, and soon, the whole room was engulfed in flames. Lucky for the sister, their uncle came by and pulled her out and then went back for John, but the boy had jumped out of the window and broken his leg."

Rose blinked at Lady Wakely in fascination. "He jumped out of the window. Why?"

"To get away from the fire, of course," Lady Wakely gave her a skeptical look, as if doubting Rose's intelligence if she could not deduce such a simple thing. "They say that the sawbones wanted to amputate the limb, but his uncle wouldn't let them. They brought in all kinds of physicians until they found one who could help him walk again." Lady Wakely leaned close, lowering her voice, "There are some that say he made a deal with the devil, and that's why he was cured."

Rose's eyes widened, and she stared at the Duke of Dorrison as he led his sister into the ballroom, nodding regally at guests as they passed before leaving her in the company of other debutantes, no doubt to get her dance card filled. He stepped back, not bothering to speak with anyone as he watched his sister. Rose could not quite reconcile this man with the one in Lady Wakely's story.

A child, making a deal with the devil?

Rose was not inclined to believe it.

She suspected that whatever the real story had been, it had grown in the retelling over the years until this twisted version was the result. Rose was very interested to hear the original tale, preferably from the horse's mouth. She got up, intending to wander over and speak to him, when she realized that several people had had the same thought, and he was now surrounded.

With an inner sigh, she turned back only to be ambushed by the Marquess of Raymond, who wanted to claim his dance.

John did his best to hide it, but he'd never felt so uncomfortable in his life. He'd held plenty of banquets on the islands as governor, but none of them had made him feel as stressed as he felt at the moment.

There were too many people, and it felt as if all of them were looking at him.

You only have to tolerate it for a while, and then you can leave Portia to it.

He scanned the crowd and nodded. There were plenty of chaperones about even if he were to step out, and he trusted Portia not to do anything stupid. He trusted his beastly reputation to deter anyone who might take it to the head to try something with his sister.

A waiter appeared in front of him, brandishing a tray, and he plucked a glass of champagne from it, gulping it down in one fell swoop.

I am too sober for all this.

Before the waiter could move, he'd plucked another glass from the tray and drained it as well. He took a walk around the room and then up to Portia. "May I have this dance?" he asked.

She grinned at him, taking his extended hand, and letting him lead her to the dance floor. As if just waiting for an excuse, every eye in the room turned to them as they took their places to dance the quadrille.

He straightened his shoulders as the music began, and they danced. Portia positively glimmered in her scarlet red dress, contrasting sharply with his own black attire.

He gave her a smug smile, knowing that there was no way she would fail to draw the eye of every man in the room. Even in spite of his reputation, she was bound to find someone fitting.

Once the dance was done, he bowed to her, gesturing toward her as the applause took over the room. He handed her over to the next man on her dance card and then casually made his way toward the door, but he didn't get very far before he was ambushed.

"Dorrison, good old boy. Been meaning to talk with you."

John blinked in surprise, not immediately recalling the name of the man before him. He quirked an eyebrow, not saying a word.

The man swayed a bit, and John realized he was already worse for wear with drink.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, reaching out to steady the man.

"Oh…well, I was saying…I know this ball is for your sister's benefit, but surely a man such as yourself is in need of a wife as well…My…cousin…" he gestured vaguely toward the dance floor.

John immediately began to walk away, leaving the man to continue talking to himself. He found that he was seething.

I need a drink.

Slipping out the door, he made his way to the veranda which circled the hall on three sides. He walked around the corner to the unlit side of the hall and sat down on one of the chairs there.

Digging into his pocket, he extracted his hip flask and took a fortifying sip. He sat back with a sigh, staring up at the starry sky. He could vaguely hear the music from the orchestra, but around him, all was peaceful. The silence was only broken by the occasional chirping of crickets and the breeze moving through the trees.

He crossed his legs, wondering pensively what his parents might have thought of this evening. Would they be happy? Proud? He had no idea. It was painful even thinking about it.

A flash of flame flicked across his mind, and he shut his eyes tightly, willing it to go away. His memories of that fateful day were vague and incomplete, but what he did remember was enough to render him weak, confused, and disoriented every single time. The smell of his mother's hair was distinct in his mind — mint and lavender — intermingled with the choking acrid smell of smoke. Her hand, on his arm, was surprisingly tight, almost painful as she whispered hoarsely, "Run."

That was the last word he'd ever heard from her.

Just one syllable, but it haunted his dreams. He shouldn't have run. He should have tried his best to drag her with him.

"Oh!"

There was a sound of scuffling, and then something fell over with a bang.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," a sweet soft voice murmured, and John opened his eyes to see a shape that was dark, tall, and willowy but definitely feminine. A woman.

The lady had managed to overturn one of the wicker chairs and was clumsily trying to pick it up.

He got up with an inner sigh and helped her, wondering if she had been dipping deep. He righted the chair and then stood facing her. His breath was caught in his throat as he took her face in; she had the most wistful eyes he had ever seen.

The young woman stared up at him, swaying slightly. "Sorry," she whispered again.

"No need to apologize. What are you doing out here on your own?"

She looked behind her as if she was a fugitive. "Hiding. My beastly cousin is being a nuisance."

At the word beastly, he blanched slightly. "A nuisance?" he asked a bit sharply.

She gave a put-upon sigh. "He says I am not throwing myself at enough gentlemen. At least not at a rate that will satisfy him."

In spite of himself, John chuckled. "In that case, maybe you'd like to join me. I am also avoiding the matchmaking mamas."

She peered closely at him, then her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, you are…you are…he."

John tensed. "What do you mean by that?"

"The host. You are our host. Oh dear, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to barge in on you." She peered behind him. "Are you…?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you in a tryst?"

He snorted. "Beg pardon?"

"I know people come into the garden to have trysts, but I thought it'd be further down. If you are, you can rely on me not to say a word." She put a finger to her lips. "Silence."

His lips twitched as he tried his best not to laugh. "I am not…in a tryst with anyone." He bit his lip so as not to grin. "I think you need to sit down. Where is your chaperone?" He led her to the wicker chair he'd righted and lowered her into it.

"My chaperone is my cousin. I don't want to see him," she said with a pout.

"Do you not have a lady's maid?"

"Ha! As if." Her voice changed to something higher and more nasal. "Unnecessary expense, that. You can dress yourself, chit." Her nose wrinkled. "That's what he says. Clearly, he's never tried to put on stays on his own."

John could not help himself; he chuckled, shaking his head. "Indeed. And how much did you have to drink this evening?"

"Not much." She leaned back with a sigh, letting her long legs splay out in a very unladylike manner. "Just two from the waiter, and Lady Wakely gave me hers. She said it was from her own hip flask."

John cocked an eyebrow. And what kind of concoction might she have been drinking?

"You probably shouldn't have any more then. Perhaps some coffee might benefit you."

She cocked her head to the side like a curious puppy. "Coffee? Why?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, you'd feel a lot clearer."

"I feel clear now. In fact, I feel clearer than I have ever felt before." She flung her hands in the air. "I am tired of that dastardly man. I wish someone would run him through with a sword."

His eyes widened with amused surprise as he stared at her. There was not much light, so all he could see was a silhouette, but she sounded much like a person pouting. "What dastardly man would that be?"

"My cousin, Winston!"

John took the seat beside her, reached into his pocket, and passed her the flask, "All right, then, tell me about this Winston and what he's done to deserve such animosity."

She turned eagerly toward him. "He inherited my father's title when he died, six months ago."

"My condolences," John murmured.

"Thank you. I miss him terribly, but I can't even mourn properly. I am still supposed to be in mourning, but Winston won't have it! He wants to marry me off to the first man who will have me."

John frowned. "That is unfortunate. Have you no one to defend you?"

She sighed loudly. "Not a soul. My mother died when I was born, and she had no other living children but me."

John thought of his sister and the enormous comfort of her presence when they were both very suddenly orphaned. "It sounds lonely," he said pensively.

"Lonely… Yes. That's how I have felt these past six months. My father…he and I, we…we loved each other dearly. I always felt as if he was on my side. Now…I am all alone."

John felt his heart twist with pity. He reached out and touched her hand, covering it and squeezing gently.

"He's so crude," She burst out. "No gentleman at all."

"So why not find a match and get away from him?"

"It's not up to me, is it? A man must offer for me."

"Indeed," John said drily.

"Oh! Please don't think I am hinting at anything, Your Grace. I don't mean you."

John's mouth twisted wryly, "Of course, you don't. I am nothing but a beast."

He could feel her eyes on him.

"I don't believe the stories about you. They sound fanciful to me. I don't think they could possibly be true."

He looked up at the stars. "Is that so?" he asked calmly.

"It is so… What is true, then? What happened that night?"

"I do not need to divulge that information to you," he said abruptly.

"Why not?"

He turned to look thoughtfully at her. She was clearly three sheets to the wind. She probably wouldn't remember anything that was said.

"Perhaps you are right. Why shouldn't I tell you the truth?"

She leaned toward him. "That is exactly what I said."

He chuckled and then sighed. "The truth is, I don't remember much of that night. All I remember is my mother, lying on the ground, coughing her lungs out, with horrid burns all over her body. I know that I went to her. I might have tried to help her; I don't know. I remember she told me to run." He trailed off.

She reached out and covered his hand with hers, squeezing in turn. "I am sorry."

"It's all right. It was a long time ago," he replied.

That was a lie. It wasn't all right at all — it hadn't been all right in years. Yet, the knot that eternally emerged in his throat whenever he returned to that memory had now vanished, as if uttering the words had untied it.

He blinked at the young lady and half-smiled. "It's all right because I hardly know you. Tomorrow, you will have no memory of this, and I will have it off my chest." He looked away. "It's not as if I have anyone else to speak to."

The moment he spoke those words, he felt a bit guilty. Portia would constantly urge him to talk to her about the night they lost their parents. But she was his little sister. He would never burden her grief with his grotesque memories. She did not deserve that.

Rose's mouth turned down as she gave him a sad look. "You know what is so strange about what you just said?"

He turned to give her a sidelong glance. "I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I don't have anyone to confide in either. Every night, I stare out of my window, watching the stars, and I wonder how my life became like this." She swallowed audibly. "I keep asking, but I never get an answer."

He turned the hand she was still covering and squeezed her hand. "There is no answer," he said bleakly. "This life is…hard, and then you die."

She squinted at him. "Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine?"

He smiled bitterly. "That I am."