Romancing the Duke

“Miss Goodnight, I have served the family since before His Grace was even born. I am bound, by duty and honor, to avoid any gossip about my employer.”



“Yes, of course. Forgive the liberty. But I had to ask.”



Izzy supposed she would have to get the story from the duke herself.



Over the course of several trips, Duncan brought up her valise, a tray of simple, yet hearty food, a ewer of warm water, and a basin.



“It is paining me, Miss Goodnight, that I cannot offer you finer accommodations.”



“Please don’t worry. This is lovely.” Anything was lovely, compared to that chamber of horrors with the bats.



“It’s so frustrating. After long months of having my every attempt at proper valet service rebuffed, finally, we have a guest at Gostley Castle. A guest who ought to be cause for a proper guest suite and a seven-course dinner.” He dropped his voice to an unnecessary whisper. “You are the Miss Izzy Goodnight, am I correct?”



She nodded. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. The duke hadn’t. He said he isn’t a reader.”



“Oh, he isn’t. And wasn’t. Neither am I, for that matter. I only had one year of schooling. But the housekeeper used to read your father’s installments in the servant quarters. The Shadow Knight? Cressida and Ulric? Can you tell me anything?”



She shook her head sadly. “No.”



“Forgive me the liberty. But I had to ask.”



She smiled. Everyone had secrets. “I understand.”



He left and closed the door behind him.



Once she was alone, Izzy tried to make herself comfortable.



Snowdrop, of course, might as well have died and gone to heaven. This castle, with its ready supply of rodents, was the little beast’s equivalent of a stay at London’s finest hotel.



As she went about undressing and plaiting her hair, she recalled the sensation of the duke’s hands tangling through it. The prickling tension between their bodies as they’d ducked together, hiding from the bats.



She still felt that tension simmering within her now.



He’s not attracted to you, she told herself. He just wanted to intimidate her, and besides—any flirtations he might engage in were predicated on a misunderstanding. He wouldn’t be interested if he had his eyesight.



Before climbing into the narrow bed, she lit a stumpy taper with her flint, then fixed it on the floor with a dab of wax.



It was going to be a cold, lonely night. Izzy steeled herself to withstand it.



She’d been given the deed to this castle. Now she had to stake her claim to it, earn her place as its mistress. And she would. Excepting her clothes and a set of seed-pearl earrings left to her by Aunt Lilith, Gostley Castle was the first thing worth more than a pound or two that Izzy had ever owned outright.



She wasn’t going to give that up.



Tonight, no bat, rat, ghost, or wounded duke would frighten her.



But she couldn’t escape the dark.



It was childish to be afraid of the dark. As a grown woman, Izzy understood this. She knew it with her mind, and she felt it with her soul—but her gut. Oh, her gut could never quite be convinced. Much less her heart, which woke her with the sort of pounding that could drive nails.



She sat bolt upright in her bed, disoriented and sweating, despite the cold. Her candle must have burned itself out. All was black. A thick, oppressive sea of black without so much as a sliver of moonlight to sail by.



Her eyes strained, peering in every direction, unable to settle on any spark or shadow but unable to give up the search. She fumbled about for her flint and came up empty. Where had she left the dratted thing?



How she hated this. Her fear, and how stupid it made her. Yesterday, she’d made a journey to Northumberland by herself, taken possession of a medieval fortress, and held her ground against a scarred, angry duke. She ought to feel like a strong woman, by any measure. But in the dark of the night, she was always—always—nine years old and terrified.



Distant memories came clawing back. She swallowed, and her throat felt raw. As if she’d spent hours screaming.



She began to tremble. Drat.



Izzy tucked her knees more tightly to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, curling into a tight ball.



What o’clock was it? She hoped that she’d managed to sleep the majority of the night before waking, but in her bones she felt it was probably only midnight or some short time past. An eternity before dawn. Every heartbeat drawn into a lifetime. She would huddle here for hours and hours, staring into the black and feeling pure agony.



Just this night, she told herself. You only have to last this one night. And it will never be this bad again.



Then she heard it.



No ghostly moaning or groaning. Just a light, rhythmic scraping. Back, then forth.



Back . . . then forth. Raising every hair on her arms.



Oh, Lord.



Izzy knew she had a choice. She could hide in her bedchamber and cower for the rest of the night, sleepless and miserable. Or she could go investigate. If she truly meant to stay in this castle, she needed to be its mistress.



She left her room on trembling legs, feeling her way down the spiraling stairs and into the main corridor. The scraping sound continued.



She moved toward it.



Probably just a branch or shutter moving in the wind, she told herself. Definitely not a ghost. Nor snakes. Nor the hanged body of a border rebel, left dangling from a rafter until it wasted and decayed to mere bones, swaying back and forth just enough that the toe bones scraped the floors. Leaving grooves in the stone, after centuries.



She stopped and shook herself. She could hear her father now.



God’s blood, Izzy. You have the most gruesome imagination.



Yes, she did. It was a blessing on occasion, but in the dark, it was always a curse.



She moved along the corridor, hastening toward that faint yet promising red glow from the great hall. There was light and heat there. The fire in the hearth had to be burning still—the duke had placed a small tree on it earlier, plus the remnants of the two splintered chairs.



All she needed was a bit of light. Once Izzy could see a little—just a little—she would feel so much better about everything. That was always the case.



She tiptoed into the great hall and peered hard toward the hearth. She glimpsed an unlit taper in a candlestick, perched atop the mantel.



Perfect.



She padded across the floor, reaching for the candlestick. The thing weighed thirty pounds if it weighed an ounce. Giving up on the brass holder, she wrested the candle loose and lit it in the fire.



Glowing candle in hand, she could breathe easier. She stood in place for a solid minute, doing just that. Breathing.



“Miss Goodnight.”



Izzy jumped in her skin. She nearly dropped the candle.



“Making your escape already?” he asked dryly. “Can’t even last one night?”



She turned, gathering the open neck of her nightrail with one hand. There the duke stood, not five paces away, still fully dressed. Apparently, he’d been awake. And walking. That must have been the sound she heard—his footsteps, brushing over stone.



“No, I . . . I’m not escaping at all.” She tried to sound breezy. “I just couldn’t sleep.”



“Too scared, I gather.” He slid a flask into his coat pocket.



“Too excited,” she lied. “I’ve inherited a whole castle, and I’ve barely seen any of it yet. I’m keen to explore.”



“In the dead of night? Return to your chamber. You can’t traipse about the place in the dark. It’s not safe for you.”



She moved to his side. “Do you mean to join me, then?”



“That’s not safe, either,” he muttered.



Nevertheless, he put a hand on the small of her back, following close as she left the great hall and began to climb the stairs. At the top of the staircase, she turned down the corridor, retreating toward her chamber. She thought.



“See?” he said. “You’ve already turned the wrong way.”



Izzy stayed quiet, determined not to admit fault. “I’m not lost. I’m exploring.”



He made a disbelieving noise.



“I’ll be fine. I’m not afraid of rats. The bats are gone for now. And I don’t believe ghosts are real.”



“Do you believe I’m real?” he asked.



If she were honest, Izzy had her doubts. He seemed so larger-than-life. Even she, with her wild imagination, had never dreamed up anyone quite like the Duke of Rothbury.



As they moved down the corridor, his hand never left her waist. Her skin burned beneath his touch.



She poked her candle into a series of cavernous, mostly empty rooms. “Tomorrow, I’ll make a thorough search of these and choose another to make my bedchamber.”



“And how would you propose to do that? You’ll need fabrics, furnishings, servants. I’m not advancing you any wages. You haven’t any funds.”



A sad truth. Izzy had considered that, of course. “While I’m making my survey tomorrow, I’ll catalog any items of value. Surely there’s something in this place worth selling.”



His denial was swift. “If there were anything worth selling, it would have been looted ages ago. There’s nothing of value here. Nothing worth saving.”



Nothing of value? Nothing worth saving?



He didn’t include himself in that assessment, did he?



Concerned, she turned to look at him. The flickering glow of the candle danced over the handsome planes on the left side of his face. But the scar on his right side defied illumination, shunned the taper’s golden warmth. At night, his wound appeared even wider, more dramatic.



It looked unhealed.



“What makes you so sure?” she asked.



“I know every inch of this castle,” he said. “From the lowest cellar to the highest tower.”



A small, darkened arch beckoned to her left. Her eye was drawn to it, and to the coy whisper of a staircase beyond. A naughty little pigtail of intrigue, spiraling out of view.



“There’s an arch to the side,” she said. “If you know the castle backward and forward, what’s up there?”



“Thirty-four stairs and a circular room at the top, some six paces across.”



“My,” Izzy said, impressed. “That was a very specific answer.”



“Count for yourself if you doubt me.”



She left his side and followed that small, curling staircase up and up, lighting the way with her candle. The way was narrow, and even as slight-figured as Izzy was, she had to climb at an oblique angle. Broad-shouldered Rothbury fell behind.



“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”



He was right. Exactly thirty-four steps later, she emerged into a small, round room. There were no bats. No rats. No ghosts. Just a single slit of a window. She crossed the uneven stone floor in cautious steps and poked her head through the rectangular opening.



Oh.



Oh, her heart.



She had to press a hand to her chest to keep it from jumping out of her body and crashing to the ground below.



How glorious.



The turret was high above the castle, offering a view unimpeded by trees or hills. A patch of sky had cleared just overhead. She was floating among the stars.



Glowing taper in hand, she could almost imagine she was a star. Isolated. Insignificant amid the multitudes. Yet every bit as afire with heat and heart.



Strange, how contemplating the vastness made her feel a little less alone. From far enough away, on some other world, perhaps she would appear to be part of a constellation.



“This is it.” She spoke the words aloud, so there could be no taking them back. “This is mine. I don’t care about the bats, the rats, the ghosts. This turret is going to be my bedchamber, and this castle will be my home.”



The duke joined her, having climbed the thirty-fourth stair. “For the last time, you can’t stay here.”



“Why?” She looked around the room. “Is the turret structurally unsound?”

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