Read Online The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel by Jamie Carie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jamie Carie
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loved, he supposed. Anything to do with music, he loved. But how could he dance when he couldn't hear the song? How did Beethoven compose without hearing the notes? He had to try. The game would be up before they even began if he didn't try.
Gabriel turned from the mirror, ignoring the fear that made his palms clammy. He motioned Meade to follow him into his bedchamber and then spun toward him. "What is it, Meade? Have my sisters arrived? The ball started over an hour ago."
Meade bowed his head in a low nod. "Yes, Your Grace." He held out the speaking book.
Gabriel took it with a short motion of impatience, seeing the page filled with his secretary's neat hand. His hatred for the speaking book was well known, but when more than a few sentences needed to be communicated, it was more efficient despite its tedious nature. His gaze scanned the instructions and reminders for the night. He nodded and thrust the book back into Meade's hands. Yes, yes, he knew very well what to do. The plan, several small plans to be exact, to pull off the feat of the duke appearing normal before a crowd of over two hundred was neat in its simplicity. Still, it would be risky and not a little ridiculous at times, but it just might work.
It had to work.
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" Gabriel strode from the room, head held high, heart in his throat.
Before he had reached the top of the grand staircase, his youngest sister, Jane, rushed to his side. She took hold of his upper arm and smiled up at him. Was she blinking back tears? Good heavens, just what he needed right now. A simpering female to calm down. But in his heart he didn't believe it. His mother and sisters were privy to the plan and he knew she was trying to do her part to buffer and protect him. He turned his head away from her loving face—those big, brown, compassionate eyes—and swallowed . . . hard.
The house was quiet for a party. His silent party. If he hadn't seen the date on the invitations himself, he would never know another soul was here.
A sensation of being in a dream washed over him as they made their way down the long staircase, across the great, silent hall, and to the threshold of the ballroom. It was as if he could hear one thing and one thing only—the tick . . . tick . . . tick of time slowing down. The air thickened in his throat. His hands began to tremble. He grasped for control. This was not his reality. It couldn't be. He clasped his hands together in front of his stomach and forced them to stop shaking.
Jane looked up at him with concern, he could feel it in the way her spine went taut and her hand tightened around his arm, but he ignored her. If he looked into her face he might break in half, right here in front of everyone. No. Couldn't allow that. He stood at the entrance to his grand ballroom, seeing the crush of people, their mouths moving so fast, their faces hot, sweaty, animated, couples twirling to silence. The orchestra bent over their instruments, looking more like a group of land laborers than artists. Where was the beauty? Where had it gone?
Dear God.
He looked at Jane with silent pleading.
We can do this. Her lips said it and her eyes said it and he remembered who he was.
A duke. The Duke of St. Easton, to be exact.
AFTER THE FIRST HOUR HE actually began to enjoy himself. It was easy to float from group to group, nod, say hello and the usual pleasantries, and move on. He kept a glass of champagne in his hand but didn't dare drink it. Had to remain alert for danger. Like skirting possible land mines, he avoided those people who would question him to death over some inconsequential matter. Lord Rowland wanted to talk politics in the world after Napoleon; Randoff Yeatley, horses; and his brother-in-law, the value of the latest investment. The girls had done a good job of keeping the secret and, taking turns hanging on the outskirts of whatever group he was in, rushing in to pull him away on some urgent matter should he seem to be
Gabriel turned from the mirror, ignoring the fear that made his palms clammy. He motioned Meade to follow him into his bedchamber and then spun toward him. "What is it, Meade? Have my sisters arrived? The ball started over an hour ago."
Meade bowed his head in a low nod. "Yes, Your Grace." He held out the speaking book.
Gabriel took it with a short motion of impatience, seeing the page filled with his secretary's neat hand. His hatred for the speaking book was well known, but when more than a few sentences needed to be communicated, it was more efficient despite its tedious nature. His gaze scanned the instructions and reminders for the night. He nodded and thrust the book back into Meade's hands. Yes, yes, he knew very well what to do. The plan, several small plans to be exact, to pull off the feat of the duke appearing normal before a crowd of over two hundred was neat in its simplicity. Still, it would be risky and not a little ridiculous at times, but it just might work.
It had to work.
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" Gabriel strode from the room, head held high, heart in his throat.
Before he had reached the top of the grand staircase, his youngest sister, Jane, rushed to his side. She took hold of his upper arm and smiled up at him. Was she blinking back tears? Good heavens, just what he needed right now. A simpering female to calm down. But in his heart he didn't believe it. His mother and sisters were privy to the plan and he knew she was trying to do her part to buffer and protect him. He turned his head away from her loving face—those big, brown, compassionate eyes—and swallowed . . . hard.
The house was quiet for a party. His silent party. If he hadn't seen the date on the invitations himself, he would never know another soul was here.
A sensation of being in a dream washed over him as they made their way down the long staircase, across the great, silent hall, and to the threshold of the ballroom. It was as if he could hear one thing and one thing only—the tick . . . tick . . . tick of time slowing down. The air thickened in his throat. His hands began to tremble. He grasped for control. This was not his reality. It couldn't be. He clasped his hands together in front of his stomach and forced them to stop shaking.
Jane looked up at him with concern, he could feel it in the way her spine went taut and her hand tightened around his arm, but he ignored her. If he looked into her face he might break in half, right here in front of everyone. No. Couldn't allow that. He stood at the entrance to his grand ballroom, seeing the crush of people, their mouths moving so fast, their faces hot, sweaty, animated, couples twirling to silence. The orchestra bent over their instruments, looking more like a group of land laborers than artists. Where was the beauty? Where had it gone?
Dear God.
He looked at Jane with silent pleading.
We can do this. Her lips said it and her eyes said it and he remembered who he was.
A duke. The Duke of St. Easton, to be exact.
AFTER THE FIRST HOUR HE actually began to enjoy himself. It was easy to float from group to group, nod, say hello and the usual pleasantries, and move on. He kept a glass of champagne in his hand but didn't dare drink it. Had to remain alert for danger. Like skirting possible land mines, he avoided those people who would question him to death over some inconsequential matter. Lord Rowland wanted to talk politics in the world after Napoleon; Randoff Yeatley, horses; and his brother-in-law, the value of the latest investment. The girls had done a good job of keeping the secret and, taking turns hanging on the outskirts of whatever group he was in, rushing in to pull him away on some urgent matter should he seem to be
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