by Diana Quincy
“How can I? This is about more than my writing. You will come to resent me for not being the ideal duchess you’ve always imagined for yourself.”
“You are my ideal woman, which is far more important,” he said urgently. “I’m a grown man. I know what I want.”
“I couldn’t bear it if you came to despise me. You will feel the censure of society for wedding me, the loss of not having children. And you will secretly blame me.”
“You don’t know that. You cannot pretend to know my mind better than I do.”
“Still, I won’t risk it.”
“How can you make a decision this important on the assumption I might come to regret my decision? That isn’t fair to either of us.”
“It is not just that. In the end, we are too different,” she said. “And you know it.”
He wanted to howl at the injustice of it, to rage against a world that contrived to keep them apart. “We aren’t so different, you and I.”
“We know that,” she said, “but the world does not.”
Chapter Thirty
One week later, Hunt strode down St. James toward White’s gentleman’s club, hurrying to keep a late breakfast appointment with Griff.
Anything to take his mind off Leela. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone. But he couldn’t stay holed up in the old mausoleum he called home and wallow in his misery for another minute.
Up ahead at a corner print shop, several people crowded the footpath, staring at something in the bow window where the day’s newspapers were on display. The gawkers forced Hunt to step into the street in order to continue on his way. One woman peering into the window shook her head and said, “That sort ain’t look like no Quality to me,” to general murmurs of agreement.
When he reached White’s, Hunt went straight to the eating room, where he found his friend ensconced in a studded brown leather armchair with curved saber legs. Griff put aside his newspaper once he spotted Hunt. “From that scowl on your face, I gather you’ve seen today’s Times?”
“No, I haven’t read the papers yet.” He’d overslept after another fitful, Leela-less night. “And what the devil do you mean by that?”
“It’s all anyone’s talking about today.” The viscount regarded Hunt with an amused expression on his face. “Did you know the truth?”
“About what?” Hunt settled in a matching chair across the round table from his friend. “Don’t tell me I’ve somehow caused another scandal.”
“Not you. But it is quite the scandal.”
“Stop talking in riddles.” Hunt snatched up the copy of the Times. He stared at the headline. “Oh. So she’s gone and done it.”
“Oh indeed.” Griff watched his face. “You don’t seem terribly shocked.”
“I discovered the truth by accident while we were all at Lambert Hall.” Hunt stared at the headline:
He is a SHE! Shocking Truth About Noble Levantine Lady Who Penned Travels in Arabia
“Devon must be beside himself,” Griff remarked. “First his sister runs off with a nobody and then his stepmother confesses to being a lady who dares to work. Not to mention the scandal of traveling without a chaperone.”
“Shhh.” Hunt concentrated on the article. The article quoted Leela extensively. She talked about her travels and of meeting her Levantine relatives. “I’m proud of my work and pleased that my fellow countrymen and women seem to enjoy it.”
“It is a damn good book.” Griff sipped his coffee. “I suppose she finally wants to take credit for it.”
“That’s not it.” Hunt tossed the paper onto the table between them. He motioned for a waiter to bring coffee to accompany the kidney pie, breads and assorted cheeses set out before him. “That’s not why she did it.”
“Is that so?” Griff’s forehead went up. “And you know this how?”
“Because I am . . . was . . . acquainted with the lady.”
Interest glimmered in Griff’s eyes. “That’s a great deal of intriguing information in one sentence. Do kindly spell out exactly what you mean.”
“I love Lady Devon and wish to marry her.” Relief flowed through Hunt’s veins. It felt good to say the words out loud to another person. It was like finally exhaling after holding his breath for a week.
The muscles in Griff’s face slackened. “I beg your pardon?”
“The reason Lady Devon revealed her true identity as the author of Travels in Arabia is to put herself beyond the pale in my eyes.”
“Why?” Griff lifted his chin. “Was she that offended by the prospect of being your wife?”
“Stop enjoying this so much. Lady Devon believes that emphasizing her Levantine roots, coupled with the scandal of a noblewoman traveling alone and working for money, will contrive to put me off the idea of wedding her.”
“I see.” Understanding lit Griff’s face. “She thinks you’ll run because you are a man who embraces decorum and abhors scandal. Does she have the right of it?”
“I certainly detest scandal.” He rubbed his tired eyes. They burned against his lids. “But the devil of it all is that I cannot stop thinking about her.”
Griff bit off a chunk of toast. “So go after her.”
“If only it were that simple.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I no longer know. She’s got me so turned around that I cannot seem to think rationally. All I know for certain is that I admire her more than anyone I know. She’s a brilliant writer. She’s unapologetic about who she is and what she wants. I would be fortunate if a woman as formidable as Leela consented to spend her life with me.”
“Good god, man, if that’s how you feel, then why are you still sitting here with me? You should be on your knees at Peckham House begging her to accept your suit.” Griff’s face darkened. “None of us ever knows what tomorrow will bring. Nothing is guaranteed.”
“You are thinking of your parents,” Hunt said.
“There’s not a day when I don’t think of them, of . . . what was done to them.” Griff ran a hand gingerly over his affected shoulder, the injury that would never heal. Not unlike the lasting wound to his soul caused by his parents’ deaths. “What I would give to have just one more day with them.”
“I am sorry.” Hunt didn’t know what else to say.
“My mother and father are gone. There’s no bringing them back. The same is not true for you and your lady.”
“Throw all caution to the wind? Just like my late brother did? We all know how that ended.”
“You are nothing like Phillip. Being with a decent woman like Lady Devon isn’t at all akin to courting disaster on a daily basis like your brother did.”
“I always smugly took great pride in the difference between me and my brother.” Hunt stabbed his pie with a fork. “He was reckless and passionate. I saw myself as measured and contained.”
“And now?”
“I suspect that I’ve been fooling myself.” Hunt stuffed a bite into his mouth. “Maybe Phillip and I aren’t so different after all.”
Hunt stared up at the cluster of back-to-back houses where Lady Victoria now lived. He’d come directly from his breakfast with Griff.
The odors of smoke and sewage drenched the air. A crying baby and an arguing couple sounded over the clatter of the traffic—carriages, carts and single-rider horses—traversing along the mud-logged street behind him. It was hard to fathom how a young lady born into privilege could willingly fall so far.
Hunt had spent the past fortnight trying to convince himself to heed Leela’s warning. Did she have the right of it? Would society’s disapproval of their union ultimately prove untenable for a man like him, a traditionalist who championed and embraced decorum? Hunt certainly used society’s strictures as a guiding light, as protection against becoming his brother, or any of the other miscreant dukes in the family tree.
But the conversation with Griff stirred things up in him again. So he came to visit the two people he’d vowed to avoid. The couple that gave up everything to be toget
her.
He followed the narrow tunnel between two of the buildings that led to the Fosters’ front door. The homes, built about a decade ago, were intended for those of modest means. The narrow, two-story houses shared chimney stacks as well as three walls, leaving only one wall for windows. It had never occurred to Hunt to wonder where his secretary lived. Had he given it any thought, he could never have imagined a place like this.
Laundry lines strung with clothing streamed across the shared courtyard. Hunt paused, staring at Number Six, the address where Lady Victoria now lived with Hunt’s former secretary. Again he wondered why he had come. What did he expect to gain by forcing an encounter with the two people who’d betrayed his trust and delivered the biggest humiliation of his life?
He finally willed himself to knock. Two quick raps. Lady Victoria opened her own door, something she’d never do in her previous life as the daughter and sister of the Earls of Devon.
Her eyes widened. Shock stamped her face. “Huntington?”
“Hello, Victoria. May I come in?”
Wariness crossed her refined features. “Yes, of course.” She moved aside to allow him entrance into the hovel she now called home.
“Your Grace.” She reflexively sank into a deep curtsy. The social graces embedded in her after a lifetime as a lady were all worthless now. Society would never view Victoria as a true lady again. She wore a drab dress made of rough fabric. The short skirt exposed worn ankle boots. But her eyes were clear and her complexion healthy. She did not look in the least bit miserable. “Would you care to sit?”
The chamber was small but neat. He sat on the quality upholstered sofa that dominated the space. It looked new. “Forgive me for intruding.”
“It is no intrusion.” She lowered herself into one of two matching faded chairs flanking the hearth. She sat, spine straight, at the edge of the seat, as any lady would while in polite company. “I am happy to see you. I must beg for your forgiveness.”
“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Do you regret the choice you made?”
“No, but I hate to think of the humiliation and hurt that I caused you. It is the sole thing that mars my happiness now. You were nothing but kind to me. Although I do not deserve your good regard, I still admire you and hold you in great affection.”
He surveyed the dark space. The only light came from a bay window by the door. “And yet you prefer to live in squalor than to be wed to me.”
“No, that is not true.” She looked around. “And I am told these are rather decent accommodations for the middle class. Those who live in true squalor reside in cellars, which can be damp and very poorly ventilated.”
“I see you’ve certainly learned a great deal about the lower classes since your marriage.”
“I am one of them now.”
“You are a lady and will always be one.”
“A lady who now not only serves the tea, but also actually heats her own water.”
“Is it difficult?” Hunt imagined that boiling water couldn’t be all that challenging. He’d never actually done it himself.
“No,” she confessed with a wry smile, “but I did manage to burn myself a time or two before I mastered the skill. May I offer you some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Silence ensued. Except for the braying couple on the opposite side of Victoria’s back wall.
“If you would get off your arse, you drunken lout!” the woman yelled through the wall.
“Shut your trap, you filthy whore!” the man bellowed back.
Victoria cleared her throat. “Why have you come?”
“To ask you if it was worth it.” Looking around, it was obvious that Victoria had literally given up everything to wed Foster. “Was it worth leaving your old life for this?”
She smiled gently. “I do not expect you to forgive me.”
“I do forgive you,” he said impatiently, “but I am eager to understand your motivation.”
“It is difficult to explain.” She looked down at her clasped hands in her lap. “When Mr. Foster looks at me, it is as if the sun is shining on me. It is the most glorious feeling. My happiness does not require fripperies and ball gowns. All it needs to flourish is Mr. Foster by my side. The time we spend in each other’s company is priceless to me. I do not expect you to understand.”
And yet he did. He knew what it was to bask in Leela’s sunlight. He took in the petite, slim woman sitting opposite him. She looked fragile, but she obviously possessed the strength of Hercules to be able to defy her family and society in order to follow her heart. It was more than Hunt was capable of. “I find myself facing a similar dilemma as you.”
“How do you mean?” Her face brightened. “Are you in love?”
He nodded. “But there are complications.”
“Why? Because the lady in question would be an unsuitable duchess?” Her eyes widened. “It is Mrs. Redding?”
“My mistress?” he asked, shocked. “How do you even know of her existence?”
“People gossip. If it is Mrs. Redding, your new scandal will undoubtedly be even greater than the last one.”
“It isn’t Georgina. It is”—he paused—“Lady Devon.”
“Leela?” Shock stamped Victoria’s face. “No!”
“I realize this news might prove distressing—”
She looked dumbfounded. “She did mention seeing you from time to time, but I had no idea matters progressed beyond friendship.”
“It is not my intention to upset you.”
“I am not upset, just surprised.” She seemed to turn the idea over in her head. “I believe I would be delighted if you could make Leela happy.”
“Unfortunately, she has turned down my offer of marriage.”
“But why? Does she not feel the same about you?”
“She believes we would face society’s censure and that I would come to resent her for it.”
“She’s a lady and you’re a duke. No one would dare to cut you.”
He shrugged. “Certainly not to my face.” He studied her. “Do you miss anything about your old life?”
“I must admit I have a newfound appreciation for servants and for Cook’s delicious food.” She shrugged her shoulders. “However, I do not miss the ton. I never cared for society, but it might be different for you as a man who places a great value on being respectable and setting an example for others to follow.”
“Honestly, what I find most rewarding about my position is the challenge of running the duchy in a way that proves both profitable now and sustainable in the future. If I wed Lady Devon, that would remain unchanged.”
“Then perhaps you should fight a little harder to keep her by your side.”
“Perhaps I should.” He’d struggled to avoid being ruled by passion, fearing it would lead him down the same destructive path as his brother. Yet following society’s strictures made him miserable. “Following the rules certainly hasn’t proven satisfactory. Maybe everything in life cannot be tied up into a neat little package.”
“My life at Lambert Hall was certainly orderly. It was only after my situation became untidy”—she blushed—“when I met Mr. Foster, that I felt like I finally understood what life was meant to be about. I know society believes I made a cake of myself for jilting a duke in favor of the distant relation of a baron, but that cake is delicious and satisfies every need in me. It’s rather freeing, you know.”
“What is? Being poor?”
“Being free of societal restraints. I realize having society take no notice of me is meant to be a punishment, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. I rather like being free to do as I please.”
“But you are living in penury.”
“Mr. Foster is bright and ambitious. I have hopes that he will secure employment and we will have all that we need.” She spread her arms wide. “As you can see, we don’t require much to be happy.”
The girl was still young and idealistic. Yet Hunt could not help but envy her obvious contentment and complete
lack of regard for what the ton thought of her.
He came to his feet. “I shall go and speak with Lady Devon.”
“You’re going to Morocco?”
“Of course not.” He couldn’t go to Morocco any more than he could fly to the moon. “I shall go and see Lady Devon at her brother’s residence here in town.”
She paused. “You don’t know then.”
“Know what?”
“Leela is gone. She called the day before yesterday to bid us farewell. I thought that’s why you’d come.”
“That’s impossible.” His stomach lurched. “Her book isn’t even published yet. Lady Devon intended to remain in town until publication.”
“She said it was too difficult to stay here for another day. Leela worried that if she remained in town, she might be tempted to do something she ought not. I didn’t understand then but I think I do now.”
“She cannot be gone.”
“I believe she intended to sail for Gibraltar today and then on to Morocco from there.”
Hunt started for the door. Maybe it wasn’t too late after all. “I need to speak to her before she sails.” He was out the door and racing through the courtyard by the time he called back over his shoulder, “I must go!”
Hunt arrived at Peckham House flushed and out of breath. He banged on the front door. “Open up.”
The door gave way to reveal a bronze-skinned man with determined features. He wore a plain brown jacket, trousers and sturdy shoes—the uniform favored by the working class. No doubt another of Leela’s Levantine servants.
The man regarded Hunt with dark, cynical eyes. “Where is the fire?”
“What?”
“You were banging on the door. Where is the fire?”
He ignored the servant’s insolence. “Pray go and tell Lady Devon that she has a caller.” He stepped up to enter the house.
The other man did not budge, leaving Hunt no choice but to remain on the doorstep. “And who are you?”
“I am Huntington.”
The man’s brows lifted. “As in ‘the duke of’?”
