Maiden Lane [6] Duke of Midnight by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

Rapunzel’s tower. It’s the Moon Maiden’s.”
    “What?”
    He cleared his throat. What had possessed him to tell her that? “Mother always said that this was the Moon Maiden’s tower.”
    She looked at him with those bold gray eyes. “Well, there must be a story in that.”
    He shrugged. “She used to tell it to me when I was very young. Something about a sorcerer who fell in love with the Moon Maiden. He built a tower to try and be closer to her and walled himself inside.”
    She stared at him for a moment as if waiting for something. “And?”
    He glanced at her, puzzled. “And, what?”
    She widened her eyes. “How does the story end? Did the sorcerer win his Moon Maiden?”
    “Of course not,” he said irritably. “She lived on the
moon
and was quite unattainable. I suppose he must’ve starved or pined away or fallen off the wall at some point.”
    She sighed. “That’s the least romantic story I’ve ever heard.”
    “Well it wasn’t my favorite,” he said, sounding defensive to even his own ears. “I liked the ones about giant killers much better.”
    “Hmm,” she answered noncommittally. “Can one go inside?”
    Instead of answering he strode to the arched entryway, a bit hidden by briars. Ruthlessly, he pulled them aside, ignoring the scrapes on his fingers, then gestured for her to walk in ahead.
    She glanced at his hands, but made no comment as she passed him.
    There was a spiral staircase immediately inside, and he watched as she lifted her skirts to climb it. A bare ankle flashed and then the dogs pushed past him to follow her eagerly.
    He followed her as well, but naturally not as eagerly as the dogs. At least that was what he told himself.
    The staircase opened onto a small stone platform. He made the last step and joined her by the low wall, which was crenellated like a medieval castle’s battlements.
    She braced her hands straight-armed on the wall and leaned over to look. The folly wasn’t high—no more than a single story—yet one had a nice view of the pond and the surrounding woods. Belle reared up on her hind legs beside her to look as well, while Percy whined and paced, unable to see. A gentle breeze teased a few strands of hair at Miss Greaves’s temple, and he couldn’t help but think she looked like a ship’s figurehead—proud and somewhat wild and ready for adventure.
    What an extraordinarily foolish thought.
    “It’s quite silly, isn’t it?” she said after a moment, almost as if speaking to herself.
    He shrugged. “A folly.”
    She cocked her head, looking at him. “Was your father a man given to amusements?”
    He remembered the strong hands, the kind but somber eyes. “No, not much.”
    She nodded. “Then he loved your mother quite a lot, didn’t he?”
    He caught his breath at her words, the loss as bleak and frozen as if it’d happened yesterday. “Yes.”
    “You’re lucky.”
    “Lucky” wasn’t an attribute most people assigned to him. “Why?”
    She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. “My father was mad.”
    He looked at her sharply. Craven had made his report last night. The late Viscount Kilbourne had been estranged from his own father, the Earl of Ashridge, and the rest of his family, and had been known for making wild, unfortunate investments—and, at his worst, raving in public.
    He supposed the normal thing to do would be to offer some word of sympathy, but he’d long ago used up all his tolerance for polite, meaningless phrases. Besides. She’d been brave enough to forgo the usual false comfort when he’d told her of his own loss. It seemed only just to offer her the same dignity.
    Still, he couldn’t help a small frown as he thought of her as a small girl, living with an unpredictable sire. “Were you frightened?”
    She glanced at him curiously. “No. One always thinks one’s upbringing—one’s family—is perfectly normal, don’t you think?”
    He’d never considered the matter: dukes weren’t, generally