Page 25 of Dukes All Night Long

T he sky was darkening through the tree canopy, and Archie checked his pocket watch.

The metal cover sprang open handily enough, but after noting the time, he had to use both hands to latch it.

A gift from Janey, the Countess of Westrood, commemorating their time together.

It had been long ago enough that the latch needed repair.

Another expense. But that problem would be resolved if he could just find the blasted hermitage out here in the fields of Duke Feltonbrough’s estate.

They’d played here as children, and while it had been longer than he’d like to admit, it was around here somewhere—the built-out cave meant for a hermit that once had been all the rage.

Feltonbrough had said they no longer hosted a hermit because the last one had not really liked the accommodation, always coming up to the house, asking to join them for dinner. Poor fellow didn’t seem to understand the job description.

A roll of thunder sounded nearby. Blast and damnation.

He was still hunting, unable to remember how they got to the damn thing.

The forest was on the right—was that the way to the band of natural limestone outcroppings that heralded the nearby gorge?

He dashed into the trees, escaping the deluge that followed on the heels of fat drops of rain that landed on his head and his shoulders.

He hoped the baroness appreciated his efforts in finding them a clandestine location for their first tryst. She was older than him by probably ten years, and had taken lovers from all walks of life—on the condition that she was comfortable.

And she endowed her lovers handsomely if they were also reciprocally well endowed.

Archie aimed to be one of them. His wardrobe needed a refresh if he was going to land himself an actual wealthy wife, and not just a season-long lay.

Last year, he’d aimed for that American widow, Mrs. Prudence Cabot, but damn his loyalty to his friends.

It wasn’t the first time he’d set aside a woman out of respect for his mates, but it was the latest. Poor Leo had been besotted—more besotted than he’d ever seen a man—and Archie was more curious about his friend’s complete decline when Mrs. Cabot had refused to see the wealthy Leo Moon.

Mrs. Cabot was a fine-looking woman, funny, and—his one absolute rule for a wife—ghastly rich.

He would take an ugly woman, he would take a boring woman, but he wouldn’t take a poor woman.

Out of the question. The baroness had neither great looks nor status, but she had loads of cash and loved a bawdy joke.

Archie could work with that. They might not be the toast of London’s elite, but Archie could rebuild the fortune once entailed to his own title.

The fortune his father had squandered and mismanaged.

Archie’s future sons would not know the ridicule of his school pals, and any daughter of his would have an ample dowry to solicit only the best alliances.

His broad shoulders could handle this burden as well as give his patronesses something to hold onto.

Was he any better than a male courtesan?

Not really. Nor did he care. Everyone had to work for a living in some sense.

While the common man went to a laboring task in exchange for a paycheck, Archie’s peers had dealt with disappointing and abusive parents, marrying spouses they disliked, all to inherit the fortune promised.

It was all a give and take. Archie’s was just taking more than most.

Even in the cover of trees, he was still getting wet.

His valet would be in a rage when Archie returned, his coat muddy and spotted.

But there! Through the thick, green foliage he spied the telltale monument: the marble bust of a cupid reading.

It had been the duchess, the current duke’s mother, who had wanted an idyllic signpost to mark the path to the hermit’s hideaway.

He remembered the day the family installed it—he’d been staying with them on a school break, him, Bandy—now Feltonbrough himself—and Bandy’s little sister, Sybil.

The first woman he’d given up on account of a dear friendship.

Not when they were children of course, as Sybil was five years their junior, and dreadfully annoying to boys on the cusp of manhood.

But the three children had stood with the duke, the duchess, and the mason who used some kind of slurry to glue the marble into place on the limestone boulder. The duchess had clapped when it was seated and left to dry. Sybil had gone to touch, but Bandy had slapped her hand away, scolding her.

She’d narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t try to touch it again.

Later though, Archie figured she’d returned and done so anyway, as the cupid was never seated quite as evenly as the mason had set it.

Idly, he wondered what had happened to Sybil.

Her name wasn’t discussed in polite society, which meant she was doing exceptionally well on the Continent, or exceptionally poorly somewhere at home.

There! A flash of white from the door of the hermitage that could only be seen if one looked straight on.

The natural curvature of the rocks hid the opening, which the elder Feltonbrough had thought was clever.

It lacked a locking mechanism, as the duke had felt it would detract from its harmonious inclusion of the rock face.

Perhaps another reason the hermit had declined to renew his tenure there.

Archie made a run for it, the trees thinning as the overhanging rock shaded the ground. But his feet slipped on a lichen-covered rock, and he was on his arse in an instant. Oh hell, his valet would be sobbing.

Archie picked himself up, nearly losing a boot to the mud.

He’d forgotten how positively marshy it was near the stones.

The ferns and mushrooms they’d hunted as children required the moisture.

He’d forgotten. Did he really want to bring the baroness here?

Maybe it was better when it wasn’t raining.

Besides, he wouldn’t mind sheltering for a few hours, until the deluge let up.

And maybe the hermitage was stocked with that brandy Feltonbrough so liked.

He pushed in the door, noting the darkness.

There was likely a candlestick and matches by the door still, wasn’t there?

He fished around with his arms while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.

He groped to find the old bookcase near the door.

Success! But then he heard footsteps, a gasp, and then something very hard hit the back of his head. He grunted and fell to his knees.

*

In the year she had been living in the hermitage, no one had broken into her home. Not even Bernard, the groundskeeper who knew she was there and kept his mouth shut about it. In exchange, she tutored his son, and the boy was coming along well with his sums and his Latin, thanks to her.

She still gripped the heavy iron pan that she used for all her cooking.

The intruder was a big man, wobbling on his knees, dazed by her assault.

Her heart thudded in her chest, unused to conflict.

Her blood coursed through her body, panic threatening to pour out of her.

She thought of how dogs would bare their teeth and threaten one another instead of outright fighting.

So she bared her teeth and threatened the man.

“I’ve worse than that for you. Get out now!” she yelled, trying to deepen her voice and thicken her vowels so she didn’t sound like the prim daughter of a duke. Which she was. Or rather, had been, until she was disowned.

The candles in the back room had given her ample light, but she knew it seemed dim to those who just entered. Bernard complained of it every time he came to collect Jack after his lessons. But Sibyl was used to it, and the intruder was not.

The big man swung his head over to her and she tensed, afraid. And then the dim candlelight highlighted one green eye and one blue. The mismatched eyes of the man who ruined her life. The iron pan felt suddenly heavy. It hit the floor with a heavy clang.

“Sibby?” the man said, and she recognized his voice. After all these years. The last person she would ever want to see.

“Eyeball?” She clutched her throat, not wanting it to be true. Her humiliation of living in the hermitage, her humiliation of a life , sank to new depths as he blinked and looked around him.

“Get out!” she shrieked, pushing at him.

He was soaked through. She didn’t hear the rain in the back of the hermitage, so insulated from the outside world.

There were a few small vents here and there, but nothing big enough for her to be aware of what happened outside of her small hideaway.

And she liked it. Tucked away, far from anyone. Safe.

“Sibby, please,” he said, his voice weary. “There’s a storm out, and someone just gave me a cracker across the head.” His hand went to explore the spot where she’d hit him. “Oh God, it’s bleeding.”

Sibby’s stomach dropped. “I thought you were an intruder. I mean, you are an intruder, but I thought… I was scared, and I—” She rushed to him, grabbing at his wrist to see the blood smeared on his fingers.

There was some, but it didn’t seem terrible, and everyone knew head wounds overstated their presence every time.

“Come over to the light,” Sibby commanded, but as Eyeball got up, he swayed on his feet. Dear Lord, he’d become a giant. He’d always been tall, but when they were children, he was gangly and lean. Now he looked like he could lift a horse.

“There’s light in here?”

“This way,” Sibby said, grabbing his dripping wet elbow and guiding him slowly. “I’ll light more candles if I must, but only for your wound, not for your convenience.”

“How kind.” She could practically hear his gritted teeth.