A Second Chance With a Duke

by Claudia Stone

  In the blink of an eye she was gone, fleeing the room soundlessly on her slippered feet. As the door clicked shut behind her, Michael allowed the breath he had been holding to escape him.

  What on earth had just happened? He had been determined to maintain his pride before the woman who had broken his heart, but the instant he was alone with her, he had proposed marriage. And the instant that she had touched his cheek, he had melted into a puddle of boyish longing, unable to speak the words he had wished to say.

  Michael tugged at his cravat, which now felt so tight that it was almost choking him. Blood hummed in his veins and he was filled with a restless energy that he knew could only ever be expended by taking Katherine to bed.

  Which was, of course, impossible.

  Curses, he thought, as he left the library and made his way down the hallway toward the entrance hall. He was in no fit state to return to the ball—he was in no fit state for anything, bar a soothing brandy and a cheroot. Michael paced as he waited for the footman to call his carriage and once it arrived he threw himself into the dark recesses of the compartment, grateful for the darkness which allowed him to think.

  There was something else which bothered him—apart from his unsated lust—and he could not quite put his finger on what it was. As the carriage wound its way along the cobbled streets toward St James' Square, Michael pondered over his interaction with Katherine, until finally he realised what had disquieted him so.

  Katherine was as angry with him as he was with her.

  Not for his misjudged words in White's, but for leaving her all those years ago. She had said that he had failed to protect her and he felt bile rise in his throat as he realised just whom he had failed to protect her from.

  Lord De Vere.

  Michael cursed loudly, relishing the harshness of the words that slipped from his lips. He would kill De Vere were he still alive, but alas he was not. De Vere was gone but he still lingered in the veiled, troubled eyes of his widow—the woman whom Michael had failed to protect.

  The woman who wanted nothing to do with him—and who could blame her?

  Chapter Five

  A curt note of apology, signed with only with an "M" but sealed with a stamp bearing arms of the Duchy of Elsmore, arrived for Katherine the day after Caroline's ball.

  In the missive, Michael implored that Katherine reply, if she wished to see him again. She read and reread these words at least one hundred times, before she scrunched the paper up into a ball and threw it in the fire.

  There would be no renewal of her acquaintance with Michael, no matter how much she longed for it. Their brief encounter had shaken her to her very core and it was only now, nearly a week later, that she had returned to some semblance of her normal self.

  It was not just her attraction to him which had frightened her so, but the strength of the anger that she felt emanating from him. Her betrayal had not been forgotten, nor forgiven, no matter his protestations to the contrary.

  When he had offered for her hand—a careless act, supposedly inspired by honour—she had been half tempted to say yes. How easy it would be to fall into his arms, to become his duchess, and to allow this strange yet familiar, powerful man protect her from the world.

  It had been but a fleeting thought, for the tightly constrained anger in his eyes had reminded her that Michael no longer loved her. In fact, she was almost certain that he hated her, and she had been married once to a man who despised her—she would not suffer through that again.

  In order to try and distract herself from her maudlin thoughts, over the next few days, Katherine threw herself with gusto into her charitable works. London was, at its heart, a port town—a fact easily forgotten when ensconced in Mayfair—and Katherine had been volunteering her time in a soup-kitchen near the docks, since the first week of her arrival in town.

  The kitchen was run by the reverend of her local church and funded by the donations of Reverend Jackson's well-heeled flock.

  "They're happy to offer their coin, but not their time," Mr Jackson had said apologetically the first day that Katherine had arrived, to find that she was the only lady present. The other women working in the kitchens were local to the docklands, with hard faces that hid their warm hearts.

  At first, Katherine was apprehensive and thought that she would only stay the one day, but once the kitchens opened and a flood of people entered, she found herself swept up into the spirit of the community.

  Their clients—for want of a better word—were an eclectic mix of folk. Old sailors, missing limbs and appendages, young men who had not managed to find work that day, and women, so many women, all with their offspring in tow.

  "Never marry a sailor, m'lady," Mrs Brown, a middle-aged woman with knowing eyes, commented to Katherine one day, as she ladled out soup for a family of six. "They disappear for months at a time and if you don't catch 'em the minute they dock, they'll have their wages spent in the nearest inn before you know it. Then they're gone again, and you're left with a broken heart and another sprog on the way."

  "I shall bear that in mind," Katherine said graciously, though she had not ever harboured any romantic notions about seafaring men.

  The wives of London's sailors were a poverty-stricken bunch, but despite the hardship they endured, there was a camaraderie amongst them that almost made Katherine jealous. She adored to listen to their chatter, to hear the advice doled out from the older wives to the younger ones, and to laugh at their ribald jokes, which were every bit as blue as their husbands'.

  But what struck her the most, was the sense of kinship that she felt, despite the disparity in income and education, with the oft broken sailors' wives. Over the weeks and months, she came to realise that just like hers had been, these women's lives were dictated by the whims of their often brutal husbands. Some days a woman would arrive with a black eye—or worse—and the other women would gather around her with concern.

  "Jimmy's back?" they'd ask sympathetically.

  "Aye, though hopefully not for long," was the usual response.

  Much fussing of the poor woman would thus ensue, and Reverend Jackson would be discreetly informed of what had happened. The man of the cloth would often take it upon himself to have words with the husband, or the bursar of whatever ship said husband was employed upon, to ensure that some monies found their way to the family's coffers. The kindness, compassion and friendship shown to each woman was something of a revelation to Katherine, who had borne Charles' cruelty alone. For the duration of her marriage, she had been isolated from her friends and family, and as a viscountess, socially she had been too far removed from the villagers and her servants to elicit any sympathy or compassion for her plight.

  Though, had she had family or friends close by, Katherine was not sure that she would have confided in them. Charles had spent a decade telling her that any cruelty he inflicted upon her was her own fault, and shame had kept her from confessing her troubles to anyone who might have offered a helping hand or a kind ear.

  Her work in the soup kitchens was something of a catharsis for Katherine; to hear told, over and over, that the wife had done nothing wrong and that it was the husband who was at fault, assisted Katherine's healing.

  "Another good day's work," Reverend Jackson pronounced, as the bells of London's churches struck three.

  It had been a busier day than usual in the kitchens, for there was a dispute between some of the dockers and the bursar of one of the larger shipping companies. Some workers had not been paid for work done, which meant that a stream of hungry, dispirited young men had streamed in from the moment the doors had opened.

  "I shan't be dancing tonight," Katherine said ruefully, shifting from one aching foot to the other. Her kid-skin half-boots were the sturdiest footwear she owned, but even they had not protected her feet from the day's to-ing and fro-ing as she doled out bowls of broth.

  "Do you have a ball to attend, my lady?" Reverend Jackson asked.

  "Alas, I do," Katherine replied regret
fully; Anthony had sent word that her attendance was required at his first social gathering as Viscount De Vere. The subtext to his note had clearly implied that there would be repercussions of a financial nature if Katherine did not comply. Though, truly, she wanted to show her face; if only to prove to the ton that there were no misgivings between herself and the viscount. Her absence might lead to more rumours and she had had enough of those to last her a lifetime.

  Katherine bid goodbye to the reverend and the women in the kitchen, who would stay behind to do the cleaning, and made her way toward the alleyway where Highland awaited with her carriage. The journey home was unremarkable, for Katherine paid scant attention to the city scenes outside the window but rather focused instead on what needed to be done.

  She would eat something small, to carry her through until supper, then bathe and carry out her toilette. Bessie would help her dress—in the same gown she had worn to Caroline's ball—before styling her hair. The young girl was not trained as a lady's maid, but what she lacked in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm. Just that morning, she had been jabbering happily to Katherine about the latest hair-do which featured on one of the fashion plates in La Belle Assemblée. Katherine had not had the heart to tell the girl that no—one would give a fig for an old widow's hair and had instead agreed to allowing Bessie try out the intricate up-do.

  All in all, it would take hours for Katherine to prepare for a ball she did not truly wish to attend, and not for the first time in her life, she wished she was a man. How easy it would be to simply don sombre, dark attire, run a comb through one's hair and be ready!

  Her mind was so focused on what she needed to do that she barely registered Mary's glum face as she ushered her inside.

  "What is it?" Katherine asked, as finally she noted the housekeeper's pursed lips and pained expression.

  "Lord Harrington is in the drawing room," Mary whispered, scowling down the hallway toward the closed door, "I tried to tell him that you were not at home, but he insisted upon waiting."

  Lud. Katherine heaved a sigh; what mischief had Toby come to create now? She did not have time for any of his wheedling or needling about money, nor did she wish to entertain any of his bothersome friends.

  "Is he alone?" Katherine queried and was relieved when Mary nodded in response. Thank goodness for small mercies!

  "I shall speak with him," she said, straightening her posture and assuming an air of confidence, "Have Bessie bring some tea and biscuits-but not the good ones, mind."

  The good biscuits were reserved for the guests she wanted to call and would not be wasted on Toby.

  Her brother was lounging in a most opprobrious manner upon the chaise lounge, when Katherine entered the drawing room. His feet were resting upon the soft, satin cushions that Katherine had painstakingly hand-stitched herself, his dirty boots shedding a dusting of dry muck everywhere.

  "Honestly, Toby," Katherine chastised, casting her half-brother a censorious glance, "I don't know how many times you've been told not to put your feet up on the furniture, yet still you persist."

  "A man will not change for any woman, only for himself," Toby replied pompously, puffing out his chest, though mercifully removing the offending boots from the sofa.

  "How elucidating you are about the ways of men," Katherine smiled through gritted teeth, "Tell me, Toby, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "Does a brother need a reason to call on a beloved sister?" Toby enquired, in an overly innocent manner.

  "Most do not," Katherine replied with a careless shrug, "But then you are not like most brothers."

  Lord Harrington's mouth opened and closed, as he tried to work out if Katherine was insulting him. Given Toby's propensity toward vanity, he clearly decided she was not, and his face lit up into a smug smile.

  "Indeed, I am not," he said, waving a benevolent hand around the cosy drawing room, "How many men would allow a sister to live so freely in London? Alone?"

  Katherine gritted her teeth at her brother's sanctimonious expression; how dare he presume to think he permitted her to do anything? She was a widow, with means of her own, and could do as she pleased. Gemini, she had earned that right a dozen times over during the course of her tempestuous marriage to Charles. A biting retort was on the tip of Katherine's tongue, but Toby spoke again before she had a chance to contradict him.

  "Indeed," he continued, plucking at the material of his breeches, which were rather tight for a man of his girth, "What brother would allow a sister to neglect her familial duties, especially toward a gravely ill mother."

  "Is Lady Harrington unwell?"

  Despite the voice within screaming at her not to take the bait, Katherine found herself fretting over her stepmother's health. Perhaps she had really been ill at Charles' funeral and Katherine had behaved abhorrently toward her? Guilt tinged nausea rose in her throat, at the very idea that she could have been so callous, though she tried not to let her worry show on her face, for she could see that Toby was observing her keenly.

  "Has Mama stayed down in Kent?" she enquired, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible, "Is she too ill to travel?"

  "She was," Toby coughed loudly, "But she is experiencing one of her better spells at the moment and Dr Higgins assured her that a trip to town would be most restorative. Mama has taken a room beside mine at The Primrose for the week and is looking forward to seeing you this evening."

  Katherine exhaled a sigh that was a mixture of relief and frustration. If Lady Harrington was capable of travelling to London and attending a ball, then she was hardly at death's door as Toby had insinuated. There must be a reason as to why he was so intent on manipulating her into feeling guilty, but what could it be?

  "I feel Mama would fare far better if you were to return to Kent," Toby said, as Bessie entered the room carrying a tray of tea. He waited for the girl to serve them and began speaking again once she had left. "I know that you do not wish to live at home again, but even if you were close by, it would soothe Mama's nerves. I have a widower friend, Mr Kingston, who is searching for a wife to help him run his home and care for his children. Quite an upstanding chap; we are going into business together—setting up a mill along the Stout."

  So, this Mr Kingston must be the friend who Toby had brought on his last visit. He obviously had funds, if he was seeking to go into business with her brother, but what possible interest could he have in Katherine?

  "How silly you are, Toby," Katherine said tightly, setting her tea-cup down upon the table lest she throw it at her brother's head, "To think that a man of such means would have any interest in a widow such as I. This Mr Kingston must have other younger, wealthier ladies whom he could pursue—ladies who might be interested in accepting his suit. Do stop this childish game of trying to see me wed."

  A firm tone accompanied Katherine's set down of her brother's ridiculous idea, but Toby seemed not to hear it. Or, if he had, he chose to ignore it. Instead, he latched upon her self-deprecating remarks about her age and her financial status with sycophantic zeal.

  "Don't think yourself too old," he protested with a smile that did not quite meet his eyes, "You are not yet thirty and still quite beautiful. As for wealth, Mr Kingston does not need to marry for money, for he has plenty of his own. What he needs is a wife who will smooth his way into society and add a glean of respectability to both him and his offspring. Wouldn't you like to help raise a family, Kitty? You could keep yourself busy for years helping Kingston's girls find husbands when they come of age."

  Lud. Toby's condescending tone grated upon Katherine's last nerve and she rather wished she had not set her tea-cup down, for she would have dearly loved something to throw at her brother's fat head. Did he think her simple-minded? Or that she had straw stuffed betwixt her ears? If Mr Kingston was willing to overlook the many things that made her an unsuitable bride for the sake of respectability, then it could only mean that his reputation languished somewhere in the gutters. How dare Toby think to marry her off to some ruffi
an, with only the promise of launching some unknown brats into society as a means of temptation? Did he think her so lonely and low, that she would jump at the opportunity?

  "I am busy enough as is, dear brother," Katherine said, rising to stand for she could sit no longer. "I do not wish to take on the burden of some ruffian's family, merely to help you out of whatever financial crisis you have landed yourself in again. Nor do I wish to allow you and Mama to choose a husband for me, for you know how badly that worked out the last time."

  "Charles was a good sort," Toby protested, his mouth sulky, "And he made you a viscountess."

  Katherine was momentarily speechless as she surveyed her half brother. Was he so blinded by the financial assistance that Charles had provided to him, that he chose to overlook the hurt that he had caused his sister? It could only be wilful ignorance that kept him so stubbornly certain of the rightness of Katherine's marriage. She thought, momentarily, on the women who frequented the soup-kitchen and of Reverend Jackson. She thought of how strangers, with no blood-ties, sought to comfort and offer what protection they could, while Katherine's own family had turned a blind eye to her suffering.

  "Get out."

  Katherine stopped pacing abruptly and turned to her brother, whose face was a mixture of confusion and outrage.

  "I beg your pardon?" Toby stood up, affronted and quite obviously aggrieved by the tone that she had used.

  "I said get out."

  Katherine was not cowed by her brother's towering frame, nor his menacing glare. He would not dare lift a hand to her, not in her own home. Oh, he might try for outrage and hurt, or threaten to cut her off from the family, but what did that matter? It was not like he had ever behaved like family to begin with.

  "I can't think what is causing you to act in such an antagonist manner, Kitty," Toby said, after a moment's pause, "You seem to have forgotten yourself."

  "On the contrary," Katherine swept a disdainful eye over her half-brother, "I rather think that I have remembered just who it is that I am. I am the woman that you and Mama sold into a brutal marriage under false pretences. I am the woman who weathered Charles' fists and insults for nearly a decade. I am the woman who will not allow you to decide my life path, ever again. Do you hear me?"