The Lost Duke of Wyndham (26 page)

“Please, Grace,” Amelia begged. She did not know Jack's aunt, and she could not bear to sit next to her father. Not this morning.

The dowager had pitched a fit, which was not unexpected, but her tantrum only made Amelia more firm. She grabbed hold of Grace's hand and nearly crushed her fingers.

“Oh, do what you wish,” the dowager had snapped. “But if you are not in the carriage in three minutes, I shall leave without you.”

Which was how it came to pass that Amelia, Grace, and Mary Audley were squeezed together on one side of the carriage, with the dowager and Lord Crowland on the other.

The ride to Maguiresbridge had seemed interminably long. Amelia looked out her window, the dowager out hers, and Lord Crowland and Mary Audley did the same. Grace, squeezed in the middle facing backwards, could do nothing but stare at the spot midway between the dowager's and Lord Crowland's heads.

Every ten minutes or so the dowager would turn to Mary and demand to know how much longer it would be until they reached their destination. Mary answered each query with admirable deference and patience, and then finally, to everyone's relief, she said, “We are here.”

The dowager hopped down first, but Lord Crowland was close on her heels, practically dragging Amelia behind him. Mary Audley hurried out next, leaving Grace alone at the rear. She sighed. It seemed somehow fitting.

By the time Grace reached the front of the rectory, the rest of them were already inside, pushing through the door to another room, where, she presumed, Jack and Thomas were, along with the all-important church register.

An open-mouthed woman stood in the center of the front room, a cup of tea balanced precariously in her fingers.

“Good day,” Grace said with a rushed smile, wondering if the others had even bothered to knock.

“Where is it?”
she heard the dowager demand, followed by the crash of a door slamming against a wall. “How dare you leave without me! Where is it? I demand to see the register!”

Grace made it to the doorway, but it was still blocked by the others. She couldn't see in. And then she did the last thing she'd ever have expected of herself.

She shoved. Hard.

She loved him. She loved Jack. And whatever the day brought, she would be there. He would not be alone. She would not allow it.

She stumbled inside just as the dowager was screaming, “What did you find?”

Grace steadied herself and looked up. There he was. Jack. He looked awful.

Haunted.

Her lips formed his name, but she made no sound. She couldn't have. It was as if her voice had been yanked right out of her. She had never seen him thus. His color was wrong—too pale, or maybe too flushed—she couldn't quite tell. And his fingers were trembling. Couldn't anyone else see that?

Grace turned to Thomas, because surely he would do something.
Say
something.

But he was staring at Jack. Just like everyone else. No one was speaking. Why wasn't anyone speaking?

“He is Wyndham,” Jack finally said. “As he should be.”

Grace should have jumped for joy, but all she could think was—
I don't believe him
.

He didn't look right. He didn't sound right.

The dowager turned on Thomas. “Is this true?”

Thomas did not speak.

The dowager growled with frustration and grabbed his arm. “Is…it…true?” she demanded.

Still, Thomas did not speak.

“There is no record of a marriage,” Jack insisted.

Grace wanted to cry. He was lying. It was so obvious…to her, to everyone. There was desperation in his voice, and fear, and—Dear God, was he doing this for her? Was he trying to forsake his birthright for
her
?

“Thomas is the duke,” Jack said again, looking
frantically from person to person. “Why aren't you listening? Why isn't anyone listening to me?”

But there was only silence. And then:

“He lies.”

It was Thomas, in a voice that was low and even, and absolutely true.

Grace let out a choked sob and turned away. She could not bear to watch.

“No,” Jack said, “I'm telling you—”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Thomas snapped. “Do you think no one will find you out? There will be witnesses. Do you really think there won't be any witnesses to the wedding? For God's sake, you can't rewrite the past.”

Grace closed her eyes.

“Or burn it,” Thomas said ominously. “As the case may be.”

Oh, Jack
, she thought.
What have you done?

“He tore the page from the register,” Thomas said. “He threw it into the fire.”

Grace opened her eyes, unable to
not
look at the hearth. There was no sign of paper. Nothing but black soot and ash under the steady orange flame.

“It's yours,” Thomas said, turning to Jack. He looked him in the eye and then bowed.

Jack looked sick.

Thomas turned, facing the rest of the room. “I am—” He cleared his throat, and when he continued, his voice was even and proud. “I am Mr. Cavendish,” he said, “and I bid you all a good day.”

And then he left. He brushed past them and walked right out the door.

At first no one could speak. And then, in a moment
that was almost grotesque, Lord Crowland turned to Jack and bowed. “Your grace,” he said.

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. He turned to the dowager. “Do not allow this. He will make a better duke.”

“True enough,” Lord Crowland said, completely oblivious to Jack's distress. “But you'll learn.”

And then—Jack couldn't help it—he started to laugh. From deep within him, his sense of the absurd rose to the fore, and he laughed. Because good God, if there was one thing he'd never be able to do, it was learn. Anything.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he said. He looked at the dowager. His desperation was gone, replaced by something else—something bitter and fatalistic, something cynical and grim. “You have no idea what you've done,” he told her. “No idea at all.”

“I have restored you to your proper place,” she said sharply. “As is my duty to my son.”

Jack turned. He couldn't bring himself to look at her for one moment more. But there was Grace, standing near the doorway. She looked shocked, she looked scared. But when she looked at
him
, he saw his entire world, falling softly into place.

She loved him. He didn't know how or why, but he was not enough of a fool to question it. And when her eyes met his, he saw hope. He saw the future, and it was shining like the sunrise.

His entire life, he'd been running. From himself, from his faults. He'd been so desperate that no one should truly know him, that he'd denied himself the chance to find his place in the world.

He smiled. He finally knew where he belonged.

He had seen Grace when she entered the room, but she'd stood back, and he couldn't go to her, not when he'd been trying so hard to keep the dukedom in Thomas's hands, where it belonged.

But it seemed he'd failed in that measure.

He would not fail in
this
.

“Grace,” he said, and went to her, taking both of her hands in his.

“What the devil are you doing?” the dowager demanded.

He dropped to one knee.

“Marry me,” he said, squeezing her hands. “Be my bride, be my—” He laughed, a bubble of absurdity rising from within. “Be my duchess.” He smiled up at her. “It's a lot to ask, I know.”

“Stop that,” the dowager hissed. “You can't marry her.”

“Jack,” Grace whispered. Her lips were trembling, and he knew she was thinking about it. She was teetering.

And he could bring her over the edge.

“For once in your life,” he said fervently, “make
yourself
happy.”

“Stop this!” Crowland blustered. He grabbed Jack under his arm and tried to haul him to his feet, but Jack would not budge. He would remain on one knee for eternity if that was what it took.

“Marry me, Grace,” he whispered.

“You will marry Amelia!” Crowland cut in.

Jack did not take his eyes off Grace's face. “Marry me.”

“Jack…” she said, and he could hear it in her voice that she thought she should make an excuse, should say something about his duty or her place.

“Marry me,” he said again, before she could go on.

“She is not acceptable,” the dowager said coldly.

He brought Grace's hands to his lips. “I will marry no one else.”

“She is not of your rank!”

He turned and gave his grandmother an icy look. He felt rather ducal, actually. It was almost entertaining. “Do you wish for me to produce an heir? Ever?”

The dowager's face pinched up like a fish.

“I shall take that as a yes,” he announced. “Which means that Grace shall have to marry me.” He shrugged. “It's the only way, if I am to give Wyndham a legitimate heir.”

Grace started to blink, and her mouth—the corners were moving. She was fighting herself, telling herself she should say no. But she loved him. He knew that she did, and he would not allow her to throw that away.

“Grace—” He scowled, then laughed. “What the devil is your middle name, anyway?”

“Catriona,” she whispered.

“Grace Catriona Eversleigh,” he said, loud and sure, “I love you. I love you with every inch of my heart, and I swear right now, before all who are assembled…” He looked around, catching sight of the rectory housekeeper, who was standing open-mouthed in the doorway. “…even—devil it,” he muttered, “what is your name?”

“Mrs. Broadmouse,” she said, eyes wide.

Jack cleared his throat. He was beginning to feel like himself. For the first time in days, he felt like himself. Maybe he was stuck with this bloody title, but with Grace at his side, he could find a way to do some good with it.

“I swear to you,” he said, “before Mrs. Broadmouse—”

“Stop this!” the dowager yelled, grabbing hold of his other arm. “Get on your feet!”

Jack gazed up at Grace and smiled. “Was there ever a proposal so beleaguered?”

She smiled back, even as tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

“You are supposed to marry Amelia!” Lord Crowland growled.

And then there was Amelia…poking her head around her father's shoulder. “I won't have him,” she announced, rather matter-of-fact. She caught Jack's eye and smiled.

The dowager gasped. “You would refuse my grandson?”

“
This
grandson,” Amelia clarified.

Jack tore his eyes off Grace for just long enough to grin approvingly at Amelia. She grinned back, motioning with her head toward Grace, telling him in no uncertain terms to get back to the matter at hand.

“Grace,” Jack said, rubbing her hands softly with his. “My knee is beginning to hurt.”

She started to laugh.

“Say yes, Grace,” Amelia said.

“Listen to Amelia,” Jack said.

“What the devil am I going to do with you?” Lord
Crowland said. To Amelia, that was, not that she seemed to care.

“I love you, Grace,” Jack said.

She was grinning now. It seemed her whole body was grinning, as if she'd been enveloped in a happiness that would not let go. And then she said it. Right in front of everyone.

“I love you, too.”

He felt all the happiness in the world swirling into him, straight to his heart. “Grace Catriona Eversleigh,” he said again, “will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

He stood. “I'm going to kiss her now,” he called out.

And he did. Right in front of the dowager, in front of Amelia and her father, even in front of Mrs. Broadmouse.

He kissed her. And then he kissed her some more. He was kissing her when the dowager departed in an angry huff, and he was kissing her when Lord Crowland dragged Amelia away, muttering something about delicate sensibilities.

He kissed her, and he kissed her, and he would have kept kissing her except that he realized that Mrs. Broadmouse was still standing in the doorway, staring at them with a rather benign expression.

Jack grinned at her. “A spot of privacy, if you don't mind?”

She sighed and toddled away, but before she shut the door, they heard her say—

“I do like a good love story.”

“Mama!”

Grace looked up from her correspondence. Her third child (and only daughter) was standing in the doorway, looking much aggrieved.

“What is it, Mary?” she asked.

“John was—”

“Just strolling by,” John said, sliding along the polished floor until he came to a stop next to Mary.

“John!” Mary howled.

John looked at Grace with utter innocence. “I barely touched her.”

Grace fought the urge to close her eyes and groan. John was only ten, but already he possessed his father's lethal charm.

“Mama,” Mary said. “I was walking to the conservatory when—”

“What Mary
means
to say,” John cut in, “is that
I
was walking to the
orangery
when she bumped into me and—”

“No!” Mary protested. “That is not what I meant to say.” She turned to her mother in obvious distress. “Mama!”

“John, let your sister finish,” Grace said, almost automatically. It was a sentence she uttered several times a day.

John smiled at her. Meltingly. Good gracious, Grace thought, it would not be long before she'd be beating the girls away with a stick.

“Mother,” he said, in
exactly
the same tone Jack used when he was trying to charm his way out of a tight spot, “I would not dream of interrupting her.”

“You just did!” Mary retorted.

John held up his hands, as if to say—
Poor dear
.

Grace turned to Mary with what she hoped was visible compassion. “You were saying, Mary?”

“He smashed an orange into my sheet music!”

Grace turned to her son. “John, is this—”

“No,” he said quickly.

Grace gave him a dubious stare. It did not escape her that she had not finished her question before he answered. She supposed she ought not read too much into it.
John, is this true?
was another of the sentences she seemed to spend a great deal of time repeating.

“Mother,” he said, his green eyes profoundly solemn, “upon my honor I swear to you that I did not smash an orange—”

“You lie,” Mary seethed.

“
She
crushed the orange.”

“After you put it under my foot!”

And then came a new voice: “Grace!”

Grace smiled with delight. Jack could now sort the children out.

“Grace,” he said, turning sideways so that he might slip by them and into the room. “I need you to—”

“Jack!” she cut in.

He looked at her, and then behind him. “What did I do?”

She motioned to the children. “Did you not notice them?”

He quirked a smile—the very same one his son had tried to use on her a few moments earlier. “Of course I noticed them,” he said. “Did you not notice me stepping around them?” He turned to the children. “Haven't we taught you that it is rude to block the doorway?”

It was a good thing she hadn't been to the orangery herself, Grace thought, because she would have peened him with one. As it was, she was beginning to
think she ought to keep a store of small, round, easily throwable objects in her desk drawer.

“Jack,” she said, with what she thought was amazing patience, “would you be so kind as to settle their dispute?”

He shrugged. “They'll work it out.”

“Jack,” she sighed.

“It's not your fault you had no siblings,” he told her. “You have no experience in intrafamilial squabbles. Trust me, it all works out in the end. I predict we shall manage to get all four to adulthood with at least fifteen of their major limbs intact.”

Grace leveled a stare. “You, on the other hand, are in supreme danger of—”

“Children!” Jack cut in. “Listen to your mother.”

“She didn't say anything,” John pointed out.

“Right,” Jack said. He frowned for a moment. “John, leave your sister alone. Mary, next time don't step on the orange.”

“But—”

“I'm done here,” he announced.

And amazingly, they went on their way.

“That wasn't too difficult,” he said. He stepped into the room. “I have some papers for you.”

Grace immediately set aside her correspondence and took the documents he held forth.

“They arrived this afternoon from my solicitor,” Jack explained.

She read the first paragraph. “About the Ennigsly building in Lincoln?”

“That's what I was expecting,” he confirmed.

She nodded and then gave the document a thor
ough perusal. After a dozen years of marriage, they had fallen into an easy routine. Jack conducted all of his business affairs face-to-face, and when correspondence arrived, Grace was his reader.

It was almost amusing. It had taken Jack a year or so to find his footing, but he'd turned into a marvelous steward of the dukedom. His mind was razor sharp, and his judgment was such that Grace could not believe he'd not been trained in land management. The tenants adored him, the servants worshipped him (especially once the dowager was banished to the far side of the estate), and London society had positively fallen at his feet. It had helped, of course, that Thomas made it clear that he believed Jack was the rightful Duke of Wyndham, but still, Grace did not think herself biased to believe that Jack's charm and wit had something to do with it as well.

The only thing it seemed he could not do was read.

When he first told her, she had not believed him. Oh, she believed that
he
believed it. But surely he'd had poor teachers. Surely there had been some gross negligence on
someone's
part. A man of Jack's intelligence and education did not reach adulthood illiterate.

And so she'd sat with him. Tried her best. And he put up with it. In retrospect, she couldn't believe that he had not exploded with frustration. It was, perhaps, the oddest imaginable show of love—he'd let her try, again and again, to teach him to read. With a smile on his face, even.

But in the end she'd given up. She still did not understand what he meant when he told her the letters
“danced,” but she believed him when he insisted that all he ever got from a printed page was a headache.

“Everything is in order,” she said now, handing the documents back to Jack. He had discussed the matter with her the week prior, after all of the decisions had been made. He always did that. So that she would know precisely what she was looking for.

“Are you writing to Amelia?” he asked.

She nodded. “I can't decide if I should tell her about John's escapade in the church belfry.”

“Oh, do. They shall get a good laugh.”

“But it makes him seem such a ruffian.”

“He is a ruffian.”

She felt herself deflate. “I know. But he's sweet.”

Jack chuckled and kissed her, once, on the forehead. “He's just like me.”

“I know.”

“You needn't sound so despairing.” He smiled then, that unbelievably devilish thing of his. It still got her, every time, just the way he wanted it to.

“Look how nicely I turned out,” he added.

“Just so you understand,” she told him, “if he takes to robbing coaches, I shall expire on the spot.”

Jack laughed at that. “Give my regards to Amelia.”

Grace was about to say
I shall,
but he was already gone. She picked up her pen and dipped it in ink, pausing briefly so she might recall what she'd been writing.

Grace shook her head. She made the half-mile journey to the dower house but once a month. Jack had said she needn't do even that, but she still felt an odd loyalty toward the dowager. Not to mention a fierce devotion and sympathy for the woman they'd hired to replace her as the dowager's companion.

No servant had ever been so well-paid. Already the woman earned (at Grace's insistence) double what she herself had been paid. Plus, they promised her a cottage when the dowager finally expired. The very same one Thomas had given to her so many years earlier.

Grace smiled to herself and continued writing, telling Amelia this and that—all those funny little anecdotes mothers loved to share. Mary looked like a squirrel with her front tooth missing. And little Oliver, only eighteen months old, had skipped crawling entirely, going straight from the oddest belly-scoot to full-fledged running. Already they'd lost him twice in the hedgerow maze.

“Grace?”

It was Jack, suddenly back in her doorway.

“I missed you,” he explained.

“In the last five minutes?”

He stepped inside, closed the door. “It doesn't take long.”

“You are incorrigible.” But she set down her pen.

“It does seem to serve me well,” he murmured, stepping around the desk. He took her hand and tugged her gently to her feet. “And you, too.”

Grace fought the urge to groan. Only Jack would say such a thing. Only Jack would—

She let out a yelp as his lips—

Well, suffice to say, only Jack would do
that
.

Oh
. And that.

She melted into him. And absolutely
that…