Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(89)

But the Rock King smiled and drew her up to stand before him. “Sweet Ann, my wife, my queen. You have broken a seven-hundred-year-old curse, one that bound me, my people, and my lands. In all my many cursed years I have never known anyone as kind and loving as you. Will you stay by my side and rule my kingdom with me as my beloved bride?”

“Oh yes,” Ann said. “And I think, if you agree, that we ought to have at least a dozen children and live happily ever after.”

“Wise woman,” said the Rock King, and kissed his queen.

—From The Rock King





FIVE YEARS LATER …

“Did you know they bloomed here?” Iris asked her husband.

It was spring and they stood on the banks of the small river that ran beside the ruins of the old cathedral at Dyemore Abbey. The stone arch rose into a clear, blue sky and below, the scattered stones that had once made up the cathedral were carpeted with yellow. Hundreds of thousands of daffodils, wild in this part of England, had taken over the old ruins and made a home for themselves. The view was gorgeous. The daffodils rolled in a yellow-dotted wave right up to the stream itself and splashed over onto the opposite bank, disappearing into the little wood there.

“No,” Raphael said. “Or if I did, I don’t remember.”

He lifted his face to the sky, a smile curling his lips.

He smiled more now—not frequently, to be sure, but often enough for Iris to know that he was happy with their love and what it had brought.

A sharp bark made her turn her head. Tansy came racing through the flowers, almost taller than she, her jaws wide in doggy joy. Behind her, and much slower on chubby legs, was the Earl of Cyril, better known as Johnny, aged nearly three and the apple of his papa’s eye.

“Mama,” said Johnny when he at last made her side. “Fwowers.”

He held up two daffodils much the worse for wear.

“How lovely, darling,” Iris replied, taking the offering. “Wherever did you find them?”

Johnny, who was a terribly serious child, turned and pointed to the vast sea of daffodils. “Dere.”

And Iris heard the most wonderful sound in the world: a deep, rich chuckle, coming from beside her. She turned and smiled at her husband.

He still had times when he was moody, and once in a while dark thoughts seemed to consume him, but especially since the birth of Johnny those times had been more and more infrequent. And when he had started laughing—just before Johnny’s first birthday—Iris had known true joy.

They were still rare enough, Raphael’s laughs, that she cherished each one. Was thankful for each one. Because she knew what a journey her husband had had to make to come from despair to happiness.

“Papa, hungwy,” announced Johnny, and held his arms up imperiously to his father.

Iris raised her eyebrows. Johnny had inherited his father’s height and was a sturdy little boy. She could no longer carry him—not in her condition—and she was secretly amused that Raphael indulged him enough to carry him all the way back to Dyemore Abbey.

But he bent and lifted their son, setting him high on his shoulders, where the similarity between the black curls on the little boy’s head and the man’s ebony locks was unmistakable.

Johnny settled with the complacent satisfaction of a child who knows he will be taken care of.

Raphael turned to Iris and glanced at her swollen belly, his eyebrows drawing together. “Are you sure you can walk back to the Abbey? We should not have come so far today.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m fine. The baby won’t come for another two months at least.”

“Very well,” her husband decreed, “but we shall go slowly, and I want you to take my arm over the rocks.”

“Of course.” Iris stood on tiptoe and kissed him beneath the interested blue eyes of their son.

And then, with Tansy bounding by their side, they went home for tea.





Don’t miss Hugh and Alf’s story. Turn the page for an excerpt of Duke of Pleasure





Chapter One




Now once there were a White Kingdom and a Black Kingdom that had been at war since time began.…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon





JANUARY 1742

LONDON, ENGLAND

Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle, did not want to die tonight, for three very good reasons.

It was half past midnight as he eyed the toughs slinking out of the shadows up ahead in the cold alley near Covent Garden. He moved the bottle of fine Viennese wine from his right arm to his left and drew his sword. He’d dined with the Habsburg ambassador earlier this evening, and the wine was a gift.

Firstly, Kit, his elder son—and, formally, the Earl of Staffin—was only seven. Far too young to be orphaned and inherit the dukedom.

Next to Hugh was a linkboy with a lantern. The boy was frozen, his lantern a small pool of light in the narrow alley. The youth’s eyes were wide and frightened. He couldn’t be more than fourteen. Hugh glanced over his shoulder. Several men were bearing down on them from the entrance to the alley. He and the linkboy were trapped.

Secondly, Peter, his younger son, was still suffering nightmares from the death of his mother only five months before. What would his father’s death so soon after his mother’s do to the boy?