Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(7)

Put out the light, my darling Izzy, and I shall tell you such a tale . . .

The truth of her childhood didn’t match what was printed in the magazines. But if she ever let it slip—oh, how people resented her for it. They looked at her as if she’d just ripped the wings off the Last True Fairy in England.

Lord Archer sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward her in confidence. “Say, I know you must be asked this all the time. But my nieces would garrote me with their skipping ropes if I didn’t try. I don’t suppose your father . . .”

“No, my lord.” Her smile tightened. “I don’t know how Cressida escapes from the tower. And I’m afraid I’ve no idea of the Shadow Knight’s true identity.”

“And Ulric’s still dangling from that parapet?”

“As far as I know. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind it.” He gave her a good-natured smile. “It’s not your fault. You must be more tortured by the uncertainty than anyone.”

You have no idea.

Tortured by the uncertainty, indeed. She was asked these same questions at least three times a week, in person or in letters. When her father died suddenly of an apoplexy, his ongoing saga had been interrupted, too. His beloved characters had been left in all sorts of perilous situations. Locked in towers and dangling from cliffs.

Izzy found herself in the most desperate straits of all. Stripped of all her possessions, cast out of the only home she’d ever known. But no one thought to inquire after her well-being. They all worried over Cressida locked in her tower, and her beloved Ulric, hanging by three fingers from the parapet.

“My father would be most gratified that you asked,” Izzy told him. “I’m thankful, too.” It was the truth. Despite her current circumstances, she was proud of the Goodnight legacy.

Over by the hearth, the duke cleared his throat.

“My lord,” she said, “I think our host is eager to have us gone. Might I ask about this bequest my godfather left me?”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Archer rummaged in a small portmanteau. “I’ve brought all the papers with me. We can have it done today. Rothbury can hand over the keys if there are any.”

“Keys?” She sat tall. “I don’t understand.”

“Your inheritance, Miss Goodnight. It’s this. The castle.”

Her breath left her. “What?”

In a dark voice, the duke protested, too. “Impossible.”

Lord Archer squinted at the documents. “Here we are. ‘To Miss Isolde Ophelia Goodnight, I leave the property known as Gostley Castle.’ Is it pronounced like ‘Ghostly’ or ‘Ghastly’? Either one seems accurate.”

“I thought the bequest was money,” Izzy said, shaking her head. “A hundred pounds, perhaps two.”

“There is no money, Miss Goodnight. Just the castle. Lynforth had several goddaughters, and apparently he gifted them with too few ponies or hair ribbons over the years. In the last months of his life, he decided to leave each of them every girl’s dream. Her very own castle.”

“Now wait,” the duke interrupted. “This castle has been in my family for hundreds of years.”

Archer looked at the papers. “And apparently it was sold to Lynforth just a few months back.” He looked over his papers at Izzy. “I take it you’re surprised by this?”

“I’m stunned,” Izzy admitted. “The earl was kind to me, but he wasn’t even my godfather. Not properly. He was my father’s patron at Court.”

Izzy had been introduced to Lord Lynforth a few times, most recently when Papa received his knighthood. On that illustrious occasion, the dear old man had slipped Izzy a sweetmeat from his waistcoat pocket and given her a fond pat on the head. Never mind that she’d been mere days from her twenty-second birthday. His intentions were kind.

Now the dear old man had left her a castle?

A castle.

Archer pressed the folio of papers into Izzy’s keeping. “It’s all there. A copy of the will, the property deed. This castle and everything in it—it’s yours now.”

She blinked at the folio. “What am I to do with the place?”

“If you don’t want to live in it?” Lord Archer looked at the soaring ceiling and shrugged. “I suppose you could clean it up. Try to sell—”

Crash.

Izzy ducked as something exploded against the far wall.

She looked around for the source. She didn’t have to search far. In another fearsome explosion of strength, the duke picked up a chair and sent it sailing against the wall, too.

Crash, part second.

Splintered wood cascaded to the floor.

In the aftermath, he stood working for breath, every muscle tensed and coiled with energy. He was a magnificent, volatile, and undeniably virile portrait of anger. Izzy was torn between admiration and fear.

“She can’t have it,” he said. “She can’t live in it. She can’t clean it up to sell.” He pounded one fist against his chest, and the small hairs on Izzy’s arms lifted. “I am Ransom William Dacre Vane, the eleventh Duke of Rothbury. This is my castle.”

The wolf-dog growled. Tension crackled and filled the great hall, right up to the vaulted ceiling.

Lord Archer shuffled papers at his leisure. As though furniture hadn’t recently exploded. “Yes, well. Duke or not . . . Matters don’t seem to have gone your way recently. Have they, Rothbury?”