Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

She could smell him, feel his breath, warm and soft against her neck. And then he did the most amazing thing. His lips came to her ear, and he whispered, “She should not have done that.”

He sounded… gentle . Almost sympathetic. And stern, as if he did not approve of the dowager’s treatment of her.

“I am not used to holding a woman such,” he murmured in her ear. “I generally prefer a different sort of intimacy, don’t you?”

She said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid that she would try to speak and discover she had no voice.

“I won’t harm you,” he murmured, his lips touching her ear.

Her eyes fell on his gun, still in his right hand. It looked angry and dangerous, and it was resting against her thigh.

“We all have our armor,” he whispered, and he moved, shifted, really, and suddenly his free hand was at her chin. One finger lightly traced her lips, and then he leaned down and kissed her.

Grace stared in shock as he pulled back, smiling gently down at her.

“That was far too short,” he said. “Pity.” He stepped back, took her hand, and brushed another kiss on her knuckles. “Another time, perhaps,” he murmured.

But he did not let go of her hand. Even as the dowager emerged from the carriage, he kept her fingers in his, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin.

She was being seduced. She could barely think-she could barely breathe -but this, she knew. In a few minutes they would part ways, and he would have done nothing more than kiss her, and she would be forever changed.

The dowager stepped in front of them, and if she cared that the highwayman was caressing her companion, she did not speak of it. Instead, she held forth a small object. “Please,” she implored him. “Take this.”

He released Grace’s hand, his fingers trailing reluctantly across her skin. As he reached out, Grace realized that the dowager was holding a miniature painting. It was of her long-dead second son.

Grace knew that miniature. The dowager carried it with her everywhere.

“Do you know this man?” the dowager whispered.

The highwayman looked at the tiny painting and shook his head.

“Look closer.”

But he just shook his head again, trying to return it to the dowager.

“Might be worth something,” one of his companions said.

He shook his head and gazed intently at the dowager’s face. “It will never be as valuable to me as it is to you.”

“No!” the dowager cried out, and she shoved the miniature toward him. “Look! I beg of you, look ! His eyes. His chin. His mouth. They are yours .”

Grace sucked in her breath.

“I am sorry,” the highwayman said gently. “You are mistaken.”

But she would not be dissuaded. “His voice is your voice,” she insisted. “Your tone, your humor. I know it. I know it as I know how to breathe. He was my son. My son .”

“Ma’am,” Grace interceded, placing a motherly arm around her. The dowager would not normally have allowed such an intimacy, but there was nothing normal about the dowager this evening. “Ma’am, it is dark. He is wearing a mask. It cannot be he.”

“Of course it’s not he,” she snapped, pushing Grace violently away. She rushed forward, and Grace nearly fell with terror as every man steadied his weapon.

“Don’t hurt her!” she cried out, but her plea was unnecessary. The dowager had already grabbed the highwayman’s free hand and was clutching it as if he was her only means of salvation.

“This is my son,” she said, her trembling fingers holding forth the miniature. “His name was John Cavendish, and he died twenty-nine years ago. He had brown hair, and blue eyes, and a birthmark on his shoulder.” She swallowed convulsively, and her voice fell to a whisper. “He adored music, and he could not eat strawberries. And he could…he could…”

The dowager’s voice broke, but no one spoke. The air was thick and tense with silence, every eye on the old woman until she finally got out, her voice barely a whisper, “He could make anyone laugh.”

And then, in an acknowledgment Grace could never have imagined, the dowager turned to her and added, “Even me.”

The moment stood suspended in time, pure, silent, and heavy. No one spoke. Grace wasn’t even sure if anyone breathed.

She looked at the highwayman, at his mouth, at that expressive, devilish mouth, and she knew that something was not right. His lips were parted, and more than that, they were still. For the first time, his mouth was without movement, and even in the silvery light of the moon she could tell that he’d gone white.

“If this means anything to you,” the dowager continued with quiet determination, “you may find me at Belgrave Castle awaiting your call.”

And then, as stooped and shaking as Grace had ever seen her, she turned, still clutching the miniature, and climbed back into the carriage.

Grace held still, unsure of what to do. She no longer felt in danger-strange as that seemed, with three guns still trained on her and one-the highwayman’s, her highwayman’s-resting limply at his side. But they had turned over only one ring-surely not a productive haul for an experienced band of thieves, and she did not feel she could get back into the carriage without permission.

She cleared her throat. “Sir?” she said, unsure of how to address him.

“My name is not Cavendish,” he said softly, his voice reaching her ears alone. “But it once was.”

Grace gasped.

And then, with movements sharp and swift, he leaped atop his horse and barked, “We are done here.”

And Grace was left to stare at his back as he rode away.

Several hours later Grace was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside the dowager’s bedchamber. She was beyond weary and wanted nothing more than to crawl into her own bed, where she was quite certain she would toss and turn and fail to find slumber, despite her exhaustion. But the dowager was so overset, and indeed had rung so many times that Grace had finally given up and dragged the chair to its present location. In the last hour she had brought the dowager (who would not leave her bed) a collection of letters, tucked at the bottom of a locked drawer; a glass of warm milk; a glass of brandy; another miniature of her long-dead son John; a handkerchief that clearly possessed some sort of sentimental value; and another glass of brandy, to replace the one the dowager had knocked over while anxiously directing Grace to fetch the handkerchief.

It had been about ten minutes since the last summons. Ten minutes to do nothing but sit and wait in the chair, thinking, thinking…

Of the highwayman.

Of his kiss.

Of Thomas, the current Duke of Wyndham. Whom she considered a friend.

Of the dowager’s long-dead middle son, and the man who apparently bore his likeness. And his name.

His name. Grace took a long, uneasy breath. His name .

Good God.

She had not told the dowager this. She had stood motionless in the middle of the road, watching the highwayman ride off in the light of the partial moon. And then, finally, when she thought her legs might actually function, she set about getting them home. There was the footman to untie, and the coachman to tend to, and as for the dowager-she was so clearly upset that she did not even whisper a complaint when Grace put the injured coachman inside the carriage with her.

And then she joined the footman atop the driver’s seat and drove them home. She wasn’t a particularly experienced hand with the reins, but she could manage.

And she’d had to manage. There was no one else to do it. But that was something she was good at.