Free The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) by P. J. Fox Page A

strictly called for. He looked, to Isla, as though the last thing he wanted was to share yet another drink with his future son in law.
    He looked, in fact, like what he really wanted was to run screaming.
    “Alas, no,” the duke said, as though this were all a perfectly normal occasion and the participants old friends. Or at least old acquaintances, Isla modified. While his tone was cool, it held no animosity. “I have business that I must attend to elsewhere.” The smile he flashed at the duke was benign, but his eyes held dark promise. Isla wondered uneasily what that
business
was.
    He’d obviously been outdoors; he was wearing a cloak again, but the hood was thrown back this time to reveal his dark hair and, almost to his ears, the high collar of his overtunic. His clothes were simple, almost severely so, but very fine. He had a pair of well-made gloves in his hands and a riding crop at his waist, a cruel-looking thing with a handle shaped like a bent foreleg. Even the hoof was perfectly modeled. Looking at the thing made Isla feel vaguely sick.
    “Which reminds me to inform you”—as though he’d forgotten!—“that I and my retinue will be intruding on your hospitality for the next week or so, perhaps through the next fortnight, until said business is concluded and I can return to my own estates.” He turned his dark gaze on Isla. “And there to await my bride,” he added, sounding amused.
    “I, ah…that is….” The earl seemed distinctly nonplussed.
    “Houseguests are indeed a burden,” the duke agreed mildly, shifting his attention back to the earl, “mayhap one that has been eased somewhat in recent hours.” Tristan’s reference to contract, and the bribe it entailed, made the earl color. Isla felt a small stab of satisfaction at her father’s expense, followed by a much larger stab of guilt.
Finally
, someone had called him out on his foolishness—but why did that person have to be the duke? Peregrine Cavendish complained constantly about the drain on his income posed by everyone else, when he was the greatest offender of them all.
    “Indeed,” the earl managed.
    Isla, so far, hadn’t spoken. Silence was easiest and, besides, she highly doubted that anyone—least of all the duke—wished themselves privy to her thoughts. Especially not if they knew the bile those thoughts contained. Now she found her gaze once again pinned by the duke. She’d just been about to absent herself, curtseying and slipping out as unobtrusively as possible, but she found herself rooted to the spot instead. The mixed smells of the outdoors clung to him and, beneath that, the faint scent of whatever scent he wore. Isla didn’t know any men who wore scent; she knew none who could afford such luxuries. His boots were made of extremely fine leather and came up to his knees. Anxious not to be thought studying him, she looked away.
    “I shall return before dinner,” he informed her seriously, again as if this were the most normal thing in the world, “and see you then.” Her father stood smiling in the door like the idiot he was and, indeed, there was no trace of the previous night’s rancor in the duke’s demeanor. Even so she knew that the man she’d spoken with then, and the man she’d seen studying his tablemates in the dim light of the fire, was the real man and not this pleasant and courtly gentleman. This…was an act. She knew it in her heart, and she saw it in his eyes.
    The duke was an exceptionally good actor, but for that residual coldness. He was good enough, certainly, to fool her father—but then again her father wanted to be fooled. He’d be happy so long as he was able to convince himself that he’d helped to arrange some sort of love match. Happy, and far less burdened by guilt. He’d also be far easier to control if whatever feeble sense of justice he still possessed wasn’t activated. Isla hated herself for the negativity of her thoughts, even as she knew them to be entirely accurate.