The Lost Duke of Wyndham (20 page)

“It is always lovely to hear it,” Thomas said. “Now, would you care to join the rest of us for supper?”

Grace turned toward the dowager, who was red-faced with rage.

“You grasping little whore,” she spat. “Do you think I don't know what you are? Do you think I would allow you in my home again?”

Grace stared at her in calm shock, then said, “I was about to say that I would offer you my assistance for the rest of the journey, since I would never dream of leaving a post without giving proper and courteous notice, but I believe I have reconsidered.” She turned to Amelia, holding her hands carefully at her sides. She was shaking. She was not sure if it was from shock or delight, but she was shaking. “May I share your room this evening?” she asked Amelia. Because certainly she was not going to remain with the dowager.

“Of course,” Amelia replied promptly. She linked her arm through Grace's. “Let us have some supper.”

It was, Grace later decided, the finest shepherd's pie she'd ever tasted.

 

Several hours later, Grace was up in her room staring out the window while Amelia slept.

Grace had tried to go to sleep, but her mind was still all abuzz over Thomas's astounding act of generosity. Plus, she wondered where Jack had gone off to—he'd not been in the dining room when she and Thomas and Amelia arrived, and no one seemed to know what had happened to him.

Plus
plus
, Amelia snored.

Grace rather enjoyed the view of Dublin below. They were not in the city center, but the street was busy enough, with local folk going about their business, and plenty of travelers on their way into or out of the port.

It was strange, this newfound sense of freedom. She still could not believe that she was here, sharing a bed with Amelia and not curled up on an uncomfortable chair at the dowager's bedside.

Supper had been a merry affair. Thomas was in remarkably good spirits, all things considered. He had not said anything more of his generous gift, but Grace knew why he'd done it. If Jack was found to be the true duke—and Thomas was convinced this would be the case—then she could not remain at Belgrave.

To have her heart broken anew, every day for the rest of her life—that, she could not bear.

Thomas knew that she'd fallen in love with Jack. She had not said so, not expressly, but he knew her well. He had to know. For him to act with such generosity, when she'd gone and fallen in love with the man who might very well be the cause of his downfall—

It brought tears to her eyes every time she thought of it.

And so now she was independent. An independent woman! She liked the sound of that. She would sleep until noon every day. She would read books. She would wallow in the sheer laziness of it all, at least for a few months, and then find something constructive to do with her time. A charity, perhaps. Or maybe she would learn to paint watercolors.

It sounded decadent. It sounded perfect.

And lonely.

No, she decided firmly, she would find friends. She had many friends in the district. She was glad she would not be leaving Lincolnshire, even if it did mean that she might occasionally cross paths with Jack. Lincolnshire was home. She knew everyone, and they knew her, and her reputation would not be questioned, even if she did set up her own home. She would be able to live in peace and respectability.

It would be a good thing.

But lonely.

No.
Not
lonely. She would have funds. She could go visit Elizabeth, who would be married to her earl in the South. She could join one of those women's clubs her mother had so adored. They'd met every Tuesday afternoon, claiming they were there to discuss art and literature and the news of the day, but when the meetings were held at Sillsby, Grace had heard far too much laughter for those topics.

She would not be lonely.

She refused to be lonely.

She looked back at Amelia, snoring away on the bed. Poor thing. Grace had often envied the Willoughby girls their secure places in society. They were daughters of an earl, with impeccable bloodlines and generous dowries. It was odd, really, that her future should now be so well-defined while Amelia's was so murky.

But she had come to realize that Amelia was no more in control of her own fate than she herself had been. Her father had chosen her husband before she
could even speak, before he knew who she was, what she was like. How could he know, looking upon an infant of less than one year, whether she would be suited for life as a duchess?

All of her life, Amelia had been stuck, waiting for Thomas to get around to marrying her. And even if she did not end up marrying either of the two Dukes of Wyndham, she'd still find herself obliged to follow her father's dictates.

Grace was turning back toward the window when she heard a noise in the hall. Footsteps, she decided. Male. And because she could not help herself, she hurried to her door, opened it a crack, and peered out.

Jack.

He looked rumpled and tired and achingly heartsick. He was squinting in the dark, trying to figure out which room was his.

Grace-the-companion might have retreated back into her room, but Grace-the-woman-of-independent-means was somewhat more daring, and she stepped out, whispering his name.

He looked up. His eyes flared, and Grace belatedly remembered that she was still in her nightgown. It was nothing remotely risqué; in fact, she was far more covered than she would have been in an evening dress. Still, she hugged her arms to her body as she moved forward.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Out and about. Visiting old haunts.”

Something about his voice was unsettling. “Really?” she asked.

“No.” He looked at her, then rubbed his eyes. “I was across the street. Having my shepherd's pie.”

She smiled. “And your pint of ale?”

“Two, actually.” He smiled then, a sheepish, boyish thing that tried to banish the exhaustion from his face. “I missed it.”

“Irish ale?”

“The English stuff is pig swill by comparison.”

Grace felt herself warming inside. There was humor in his eyes, the first she'd seen in days. And it was strange—she'd thought it would be torture to be near him, to be with him and hear his voice and see his smile. But all she felt now was happiness. And relief.

She could not bear it when he was so unhappy. She needed for him to be
him
. Even if he could not be hers.

“You should not be out here like this,” he said.

“No.” She shook her head but did not move.

He grimaced and looked down at his key. “I cannot find my room.”

Grace took the key from him and peered at it. “Fourteen,” she said. She looked up. “The light is dim.”

He nodded.

“It is that way,” she told him, pointing down the hall. “I passed it on the way in.”

“Is your room acceptable?” he asked. “Large enough for both you and the dowager?”

Grace gasped. He did not know. She'd completely forgotten. He had already left when Thomas gave her the cottage. “I'm not with the dowager,” she said, unable to conceal all of her excitement. “I—”

“Someone's coming,” he whispered harshly, and indeed, she heard voices and footsteps on the stairs. He started to steer her back to her room.

“No, I can't.” She dug in her heels. “Amelia is there.”

“Amelia? Why would she—” He muttered something under his breath and then yanked her along with him down the hall. Into Room 14.

T
hree minutes,” Jack said, the moment he pulled the door shut. Because truly, he did not think he could last any longer than that. Not when she was dressed in her nightgown. It was an ugly thing, really, all rough and buttoned from chin to toe, but still, it was a
nightgown
.

And she was Grace.

“You will never believe what has happened,” she said.

“Normally an excellent opening,” he acknowledged, “but after everything that
has
happened in the last two weeks, I find myself willing to believe almost anything.” He smiled and shrugged. Two pints of fine Irish ale had made him mellow.

But then she told him the most amazing story. Thomas had given her a cottage and an income. Grace
was now an independent woman. She was free of the dowager.

Jack lit the lamp in his room, listening to her excitement. He felt a prickle of jealousy, though not because he did not think she should be receiving gifts from another man—the truth was, she'd more than earned anything the duke chose to portion off to her. Five years with the dowager—Good God, she ought to be given a title in her own right as penance for such as that. No one had done more for England.

No, his jealousy was a far more basic stripe. He heard the joy in her voice, and once he'd banished the dark of the room, he saw the joy in her eyes. And quite simply, it just felt wrong that someone else had given her that.

He
wanted to do it.
He
wanted to light her eyes with exhilaration.
He
wanted to be the origin of her smile.

“I will still have to go with you to County Cavan,” Grace was saying. “I can't stay here by myself, and I wouldn't want Amelia to be alone. This is all terribly difficult for her, you know.”

She looked up at him, so he nodded in response. Truthfully, he hadn't been thinking very much of Amelia, selfish as that was.

“I'm sure it will be awkward with the dowager,” Grace continued. “She was furious.”

“I can imagine,” Jack murmured.

“Oh, no.” Her eyes grew very wide. “This was extraordinary, even for her.”

He pondered that. “I am not certain if I am sorry or relieved that I missed it.”

“It was probably for the best that you were not present,” Grace replied, grimacing. “She was rather unkind.”

He was about to say that it was difficult to imagine her any other way, but Grace suddenly brightened and said, “But do you know, I don't care!” She giggled then, the heady sound of someone who can't quite believe her good fortune.

He smiled for her. It was infectious, her happiness. He did not intend that she should ever live apart from him, and he rather suspected that Thomas had not given her the cottage with the intention that she live there as Mrs. Jack Audley, but he understood her delight. For the first time in years, Grace had something of her own.

“I'm sorry,” she said, but she could not quite hide her smile. “I should not be here. I didn't mean to wait up for you, but I was just so excited, and I wanted to tell you, because I knew you'd understand.”

And as she stood there, her eyes shining up at him, his demons slipped away, one by one, until he was just a man, standing before the woman he loved. In this room, in this minute, it didn't matter that he was back in Ireland, that there were so many bloody reasons he should be running for the door and finding passage on the next ship to anywhere.

In this room, in this minute, she was his everything.

“Grace,” he said, and his hand rose to touch her cheek. She curled into it, and in that moment he knew he was lost. Whatever strength he'd thought he possessed, whatever will to do the right thing—

It was gone.

“Kiss me,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened.

“Kiss me.”

She wanted to. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the air around them.

He leaned down, closer…but not enough so their lips touched. “Kiss me,” he said, one last time.

She rose on her toes. She moved nothing else—her hands did not come up to caress him, she did not lean in, allowing her body to rest against his. She just rose on her toes until her lips brushed his.

And then she backed away.

“Jack?” she whispered.

“I—” He almost said it. The words were right there, on his lips.
I love you
.

But somehow he knew—he had no idea how, just that he did—if he said it then, if he gave voice to what he was certain she knew in her heart, it would scare her away.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. He was through being noble. The current Duke of Wyndham could spend his life doing nothing but the right thing, but he could not be so unselfish.

He kissed her hand.

“I shouldn't,” she whispered.

He kissed her other hand.

“Oh, Jack.”

He raised them both to his lips, holding them to his face, inhaling her scent.

She looked at the door.

“Stay with me,” he said again. And then he touched
her chin, tipped her face gently up, and laid one soft kiss on her lips. “Stay.”

He watched her face, saw the conflicted shadows in her eyes. Her lips trembled, and she turned away from him before she spoke.

“If I—” Her voice was a whisper, shaky and unsure. “If I stay…”

He touched her chin but did not guide her back to face him. He waited until she was ready, until she turned on her own.

“If I stay…” She swallowed, and shut her eyes for a moment, as if summoning courage. “Can you…Is there a way you can make sure there is no baby?”

For a moment he could not speak. Then he nodded, because yes, he could make sure there was no baby. He had spent his adult life making sure there would be no babies.

But that had been with women he did not love, women he did not intend to adore and worship for the rest of their lives. This was Grace, and the idea of making a baby with her suddenly burned within him like a shining, magical dream. He could see them as a family, laughing, teasing. His own childhood had been like that—loud and boisterous, racing across fields with his cousins, fishing in streams and never catching a thing. Meals were never formal affairs; the icy gatherings at Belgrave had been as foreign to him as a Chinese banquet.

He wanted all of that, and he wanted it with Grace. Only he hadn't realized just how much until this very moment.

“Grace,” he said, holding her hands tightly. “It does
not matter. I will marry you. I
want
to marry you.”

She shook her head, the motion fast and jerky, almost frenzied. “No,” she said. “You can't. Not if you are the duke.”

“I will.” And then, damn it all, he said it anyway. Some things were too big, too true, to keep inside. “I love you. I love you. I have never said that to another woman, and I never will. I love
you
, Grace Eversleigh, and I want to marry you.”

She shut her eyes, looking almost pained. “Jack, you can't—”

“I
can
. I do. I will.”

“Jack—”

“I am so tired of everyone telling me what I cannot do,” he burst out, letting go of her hands to stalk across the room. “Do you understand that I don't care? I don't care about the bloody dukedom and I certainly don't care about the dowager. I care about you, Grace. You.”

“Jack,” she said again, “if you are the duke, you will be expected to marry a woman of high birth.”

He swore under his breath. “You speak of yourself as if you were some dockside whore.”

“No,” she said, trying to be patient, “I do not. I know exactly what I am. I am an impoverished young lady of impeccable but undistinguished birth. My father was a country gentleman, my mother the daughter of a country gentleman. We have no connections to the aristocracy. My mother was the second cousin to a baronet, but that is all.”

He stared at her as if he hadn't heard a word she'd said. Or as if he'd heard but hadn't listened.

No
, Grace thought miserably. He'd listened but he hadn't heard. And sure enough, the first words from his mouth were: “I don't care.”

“But everyone else does,” she persisted. “And if you are the duke, there will be enough of an uproar as it is. The scandal will be amazing.”

“I don't care.”

“But you
should
.” She stopped, forcing herself to take a breath before she continued. She wanted to grab her head and press her fingers into her scalp. She wanted to make fists until her fingernails bit into her skin. Anything—anything that would eat away at this awful frustration that was pulling her inside out. Why wasn't he listening? Why couldn't he hear that—

“Grace—” he began.

“No!” She cut him off, perhaps more loudly than she ought, but it had to be said: “You will need to tread carefully if you wish to be accepted into society. Your wife does not have to be Amelia, but it must be someone like her. With a similar background. Otherwise—”

“Are you listening to me?” he cut in. He grasped her shoulders, holding her in place until she looked up at him, directly into his eyes. “I don't care about ‘otherwise.' I don't need for society to accept me. All I need is you, whether I live in a castle, a hovel, or anything in between.”

“Jack…” she began. He was being naive. She loved him for it, nearly wept with joy that he adored her enough to think he could so thoroughly flout convention. But he didn't know. He had not lived at Belgrave for five years. He had not traveled to London with the dowager and seen firsthand what it meant to be a
member of such a family. She had. She had watched, and she had observed, and she knew exactly what was expected of the Duke of Wyndham. His duchess could not be a nobody from the neighborhood. Not if he expected anyone to take him seriously.

“Jack,” she said again, trying to find the right words. “I wish—”

“Do you love me?” he cut in.

She froze. He was staring at her with an intensity that left her breathless, immobile.

“Do you love me?”

“It doesn't—”

“Do…you…love me?”

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to say it. If she did, she would be lost. She would never be able to resist him—his words, his lips. If she gave him this, she would lose her last defense.

“Grace,” he said, cradling her face in his hands. He leaned down and kissed her—once, with aching tenderness. “Do you love me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

“Then that is all that matters.”

She opened her lips to try one last time to talk sense into him, but he was already kissing her, his mouth hot and passionate on her own.

“I love you,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her brows, her ears. “I love you.”

“Jack,” she whispered, but her body had already begun to hum with desire. She wanted him. She wanted this. She did not know what tomorrow would bring, but at this moment she was willing to pretend that she did not care. As long as—

“Promise me,” she said urgently, grasping his face firmly in her hands. “Please. Promise me that there will be no baby.”

His eyes shuttered and flared, but finally he said, “I promise you I will try.”

“You will try?” she echoed. Surely he would not lie about this. He would not ignore her plea and later pretend that he'd “tried.”

“I will do what I know how to do. It is not completely foolproof.”

She loosened her grip and showed her acquiescence by allowing her fingers to trail along his cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning up for a kiss.

“But I promise you this,” he said, sweeping her into his arms, “you
will
have our baby. I
will
marry you. No matter who I am, or what my name is, I will marry you.”

But she no longer had the will to argue with him. Not now, not when he was carrying her to his bed. He laid her down atop the covers and stepped back, quickly undoing the top buttons of his shirt so he could pull it over his head.

And then he was back, half beside her, half atop her, kissing her as if his life depended upon it. “My God,” he almost grunted, “this thing is ugly,” and Grace could not help but giggle as his fingers attempted to do their magic on her buttons. He let out a frustrated growl when they did not comply, and he actually grasped the two sides of her nightgown, clearly intending to wrench it apart and let the buttons fly where they might.

“No, Jack, you can't!” She was laughing as she said
it; she didn't know why it was so funny—surely de-flowerings were meant to be serious, life-altering affairs. But there was so much joy bubbling within her. It was difficult to keep it contained. Especially when he was trying so hard to complete such a simple task and failing so miserably.

“Are you sure?” His face was almost comical in its frustration. “Because I am fairly certain that I do a service to all mankind by destroying this.”

She tried not to laugh. “It's my only nightgown.”

This, he appeared to find interesting. “Are you saying that if I tear it off, you will have to sleep naked for the duration of our journey?”

She quickly moved his hand from her bodice. “Don't,” she warned him.

“But it's so tempting.”

“Jack…”

He sat back on his heels, gazing down at her with a mixture of hunger and amusement that made her shiver. “Very well,” he said, “you do it.”

She had been intending to do just that, but now, with him watching her so intently, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire, she felt almost frozen in place. How could she be so brazen as to strip before him? To peel her clothing from her body—to do it
herself
. There was a difference, she realized, in taking off her own clothing and allowing herself to be seduced.

Slowly, fingers trembling, she reached for the top button of her nightgown. She couldn't see it; it was far too high, almost to her chin. But her fingers knew the motions, knew the buttons, and almost without thinking, she slipped one free.