Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(6)

“I don’t wish to be helped!”

He turned to see her glaring at him, her blond hair a halo about her head in the carriage’s lantern light, and felt his lips quirk. She really was rather extraordinary.

A pity he could not make her his wife in reality.

Her gaze swept past him and to the facade of the building behind him, then widened in what looked very much like horror. “This is your home?”

He turned to look as well. The abbey was ancient. The original structure had been a fortified keep, which had been added to and modified over centuries, first by monks and then, after the dissolution of the monasteries, by generations of his ancestors. This was where he’d spent most of his childhood. Where his mother had breathed her last breath. The place he’d hoped never to see again.

His mouth twisted. “Home might be a bit of an exaggeration.”





Chapter Two




The stonecutter lived with his two daughters in a tiny hut at the edge of a great barren plain of rock.

It was a desolate place and few godly things dwelled there, but the stonecutter found plenty of stones and, since he’d never learned another trade, there he stayed.…

—From The Rock King





The edifice that rose before Iris loomed like a decaying giant in the flickering lantern light, somehow both gloomy and forbidding.

“What is this place?” she whispered.

“Dyemore Abbey,” the duke replied.

Even now his voice was a sensuous rasp against her nerve endings. His skin was pale and sweaty, his horrid scar standing out like a red snake writhing down the right side of his face.

“Come,” he said and turned toward the entry.

She didn’t want to enter this ghastly mansion with him. She didn’t entirely trust him, wounded or not. He might’ve saved her from immediate rape and murder, but he’d been participating at that revelry tonight. He was obviously a member of the Lords of Chaos.

And the Dionysus had ordered him to make sure she kept their secrets. To kill her.

The scowling manservant to her right—Ivo—gave her no choice, however. His firm grip on her elbow compelled her forward and across a graveled drive.

Only one window held a light—a dim glow from within, as if it struggled not to be extinguished beneath the tons of dark-brown stones that made up Dyemore Abbey. The mansion must be four or five stories high, with rectangular windows set deep in the facade. Behind the monolithic central tower loomed craggy shapes, as if a mountain range of other wings or ruins was beyond.

The duke mounted the front steps with the help of his manservant. The door was arched, but over it was the overlarge face of a demon or gargoyle, holding up the lintel of the window above. The gargoyle glared down at them, its mouth stretched wide in a grimace.

Iris shuddered.

Obviously the dukes of Dyemore weren’t concerned with welcoming guests to their ducal seat.

The door opened, and a plump woman immediately began chattering in Corsican.

This must be Nicoletta. She was older—perhaps in her fifth decade—and her black hair was scraped back from her scowling face and hidden under a plain white cap. The woman held a candle in one hand and seemed to be scolding the manservant who was helping the duke. The servant who had assisted the duke from the carriage said something, and the Corsicans all looked at Iris.

He’d told them who had shot their master—she just knew it. Nicoletta’s black eyes narrowed.

Her gaze was not benign.

Iris shivered, remembering the duke’s words. His servants would rightfully blame her for his wound. Was there any way she could explain herself? But most of them weren’t speaking English, and she didn’t know Corsican.

Besides, Dyemore’s wound was her fault. Whatever the duke might be, he had saved her from the Lords of Chaos, and she’d repaid him by shooting him.

Lord. She blinked back sudden tears. Her nerves were stretched taut from days of uncertainty and fear, and now to know she’d done this to another, even in defense of her own person …

Iris swallowed and straightened her back. She mustn’t break now. Mustn’t show weakness when she didn’t know who these people were or if they meant to do her harm.

Dyemore snapped something in Corsican at that moment, and the servants looked away from her, moving again.

They led her into the house. Iris tried to swallow her apprehension as the Corsicans talked in their own language and Ivo’s grip on her arm remained firm. The hall was grand—marble floors, carved wood paneling, and high ceilings that might be painted—but it was cold and dim. The only light the maidservant’s candle.

Dyemore Abbey felt … dead.

Iris shook away the morbid thought as she followed the procession deeper into the entry hall. At the back they mounted wide stairs leading to a landing with another staircase branching out from each end. Portraits peered down from the walls in the gloom as they took the steps to the right. On the upper level Nicoletta led the way to a large sitting room and warmth at last.

Near the fire—the only point of light in the cavernous room—Dyemore sank heavily into a huge wing-backed chair.

One of the men poured him a glass of wine from a crystal carafe.

“I apologize for my lack of hospitality,” Dyemore said after taking a sip of the wine. “Most of my Corsicans are guarding the house outside. It’s imperative that you not wander in the abbey. Some of the rooms are locked for a reason. Stay out of them.”