The Duke of Ruin (The Untouchables Book 8)

by Darcy Burke

  He kissed her again, slipping his tongue into her mouth. She speared her fingers into the hair at his nape and held him tight, kissing him back with a heat that made him weak.

  When she pulled back, her lips were still smiling. “Now about this wedding. When is it to take place?”

  Grateful for the distraction—no, he was grateful for her—he launched into the plans he’d discussed with Lowell. As expected, she was quite thrilled to take part.

  Then he realized they should be here for the nuptials. And since they needed three consecutive Sundays for the banns to be read, that meant staying here for a month.

  He wasn’t sure he could do it. The week he’d promised stretched long and harrowing before him. But perhaps with Diana at his side, he could muster the strength to put the past where it belonged: in the past.

  If not, he’d do what he did best. He’d flee.

  Chapter 15

  Simon strode into his office four days later and mentally checked off another night in his quest to see how long he could stand to be here. So far, he was managing all right—thanks to Diana. She brightened his days and seduced his nights. It was a bittersweet relief as he grappled with being here with her while still trying to hold on to the promise of remembering and loving Miriam.

  That latter part was growing harder every day, and the strain of guilt was wearing on him. Well, more than it usually did.

  Activity on the drive drew his eye. A carriage had just pulled up to the portico. He craned his neck to see who climbed out. Hell, it was his mother.

  He turned on his heel and stalked to the entry hall, working to ignore the pricks of unease that always stabbed at him in that space. A footman was already opening the door to the portico, and a moment later, his mother breezed inside, her small spaniel following at her heels.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” she said without preamble as she removed her gloves and handed them to the footman.

  “Welcome, Mother.” He’d sent her a letter from Oxford informing her of his marriage. But he hadn’t invited her here. She hadn’t come since Miriam’s funeral.

  She tugged at the ribbons of her hat, and the footman came forward to take the accessory from her after she pulled it from her head. She patted at the back of her gray hair. “Where is your new duchess?”

  “I’ll have her join us for tea in the drawing room,” Simon offered in a genial tone he didn’t particularly feel. The woman in front of him had turned her back when Miriam had died, and now she showed up as if they weren’t estranged?

  “Wonderful.” She turned to the butler. “Good to see you, Lowell. Please have my things taken up to the Queen’s Bedroom.”

  It was their finest guest room, and he wasn’t surprised that was where she chose to stay. Nor was he surprised that she acted as though she were still the duchess. She’d done the same when Miriam had been alive.

  The dowager started toward what used to be the Red Drawing Room, snapping her fingers so the dog trailed her. Simon fell into step behind them, wondering if the pup felt as disgruntled as he did.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Simon asked as they entered the drawing room. It was, as his mother had just become aware, no longer red.

  “What did you do?” The high pitch of her voice made her dog whimper. She looked down and clucked her tongue. “Quiet, boy.” She directed her gaze to Simon. “Not you. You explain. What did you do to my Red Drawing Room?”

  “I refurbished it.” The red wallpaper was gone and replaced with a pale yellow. The dark, rich furnishings in shades of garnet and cherry had been removed and in their place were blues and golds. “The painting over the mantel is the same,” he said helpfully.

  She sniffed. “I loved this room. The entry hall was different too. Have you changed everything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That sounds as though you plan to.”

  At that moment, Diana strolled in, her face a mask of serene beauty. She went straight to Simon’s side and offered a curtsey to his mother. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Duchess. To answer your question, though I suppose it wasn’t really a question, we do plan to refurbish the entire house. It’s important for Lyndhurst to become our home. I’m sure you understand why that would be necessary for your son.” She stepped closer to him and briefly clasped his hand.

  Oh my God, how he loved this woman. Her fierce protection and quick wit astounded him. He was continually humbled by the grace she showed him. Yes, he loved her. Beyond all odds, beyond every expectation, he loved her.

  He squeezed her hand. “Mother, may I present my wife, Her Grace the Duchess of Romsey.”

  His mother showed her respect in a rather shallow curtsey, but he didn’t take offense. He knew her knees were creaky. “You were formerly Miss Diana Kingman, is that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I shan’t be ma’am to you. You’ll call me Mother, of course.” The dowager looked around at the furniture. “Where shall I sit? You got rid of my favorite chair.”

  “Actually, I had it moved to the dower house,” Simon said. He’d sent many of the things he’d removed from the main house to the smaller dwelling that sat two miles west and that his mother hadn’t visited since Miriam had died. “If you ever care to stay there again, you’ll likely find what you’re missing. In the meantime, you might like that gold chair.” He indicated an overstuffed chair of particular comfort angled near a light blue settee.

  “Well, that was thoughtful of you.” She went to the chair and settled her narrow frame onto the cushion. Her dog jumped up next to her and immediately snuggled between her thigh and the arm of the chair. “There’s even room for Humphrey, just as there was in my old chair.” She gave Simon a wary look, as if she wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat. Not that he knew what she was even battling. Him, he supposed, though he wasn’t sure why.

  She looked up at Simon and Diana. “Are you going to sit?”

  Diana gently tugged him toward the settee. They sat down together, and, regrettably, she let go of his hand. “How kind of you to pay us a visit,” Diana said. “Are you staying here or at the dower house?”

  “Here, but only for a few days. I had to come meet my new daughter-in-law. Weren’t you betrothed to the Duke of Kilve?” The dowager gave Simon an accusatory look. “Your friend. Or so I thought.”

  Ah, this was the problem. She thought there was a scandal, and he supposed there was, albeit a minor one. Or so it seemed to him. How did a broken engagement and two subsequent marriages—he assumed Nick and Violet had married, but hadn’t yet corresponded with them—that had pleased all parties compare to the tragic death of one’s wife? Hell, none of it should be a scandal. What it should be was no one’s bloody business.

  “The duke and I decided we wouldn’t suit,” Diana said. “As it happens, he was enamored of Lady Pendleton, whom he will shortly wed, if he hasn’t already. And I preferred to wed your son.”

  Couldn’t she have been enamored too? Love fairly burst forth from his chest, but did she feel the same? He knew she cared for him, but he also knew she was reticent where that emotion was concerned. And given what he knew of her upbringing, he understood. Whereas he’d been raised with plenty of that emotion, even if his mother wasn’t necessarily showing it just now.

  His mother looked between them, her gaze skeptical. “How…convenient. You couldn’t have had a normal wedding? Or was there a reason you had to run off to Gretna?” Her meaning was clear as her gaze dipped to Diana’s abdomen.

  “There was no such reason, Mother,” he said coolly, taking Diana’s hand in his. “We simply wished to be wed with haste.”

  Mother shook her head and waved her hand. “You could’ve gotten a special license. Or perhaps not. It may not have been granted in your case.” Because of the stain of his wife’s suspicious death. Simon hadn’t considered that, but that was because a special license hadn’t ever entered into their deliberations. Not that he planned to disclose
that.

  “In any case, we’re quite happy to be married and to welcome you to Lyndhurst,” Diana said brightly, as if she hadn’t just had to defend her decision to marry him. She’d been denied choice her whole life, and to have this most important one questioned had to upset her. Yet she didn’t show it. She was the consummate hostess and duchess. Her parents, damn them, would be pleased.

  “That’s excellent to hear,” Mother said. “Perhaps it will improve my son’s reputation. He’s in need of good favor.”

  “Not from me,” Diana said quietly. She looked at him as he turned to look at her, and their eyes connected for a long, beautiful moment, their hands still clasped. When they finally broke the contact and directed their attention back at the dowager, she was scrutinizing Diana.

  “Do you know the truth of what happened here?”

  “Mother.” Simon practically growled the word. He’d put up with quite a bit—hell, he’d put up with everything Society had thrown at him, both to his face and behind his back—but he wouldn’t tolerate his mother insulting his wife in her own bloody drawing room.

  “Yes.” Diana’s answer was firm.

  “You’re aware they argued, that he grabbed her?”

  Diana’s grip tightened. “Yes.”

  “And do you know why they argued?”

  Simon didn’t even know why they’d argued. He’d never been able to reconcile it. He and Miriam hadn’t ever quarreled. His insides churned. “Mother, how can you know that?”

  “Because I do, and it’s perhaps time you do too since you can’t remember.” Despite her obnoxious line of questioning, her tone had carried a thread of warmth and care. Until the last, which she’d delivered with a healthy dose of disdain. She’d despised his drinking. It was a remnant of his rakish ways, which she’d loathed.

  “W-why do you think it’s your place to do this?” Diana’s voice trembled slightly, and Simon caught the stutter. He refused to allow her to be upset.

  “Watch yourself, Mother,” he warned.

  “The rumor amongst the staff was that Miriam had been unfaithful, that the babe wasn’t Simon’s.”

  Simon felt as though the world had disappeared beneath him. He was floating, untethered and adrift in a void. He felt nothing.

  Until he felt the grip of her hand on his. Suddenly, he had something to hold on to. Someone.

  And just when he thought nothing could get worse, Lowell stepped over the threshold and announced, “Sir Barnard and Lady Kingman.”

  Diana’s hand went slack in his, and all the color left her face. Simon leapt to his feet, intending to physically vanquish her father if necessary. Dammit, he’d wanted to manage this meeting on his own terms. On Diana’s terms.

  The baronet was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair salted liberally with gray. His dark brows pitched low over his eyes, which he’d targeted on Diana. “Found you at last.”

  “Found her? Did you misplace her?” Simon’s mother asked.

  Sir Barnard ignored her, his furious gaze never leaving Diana. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble.” He tipped his head up to look at Simon. “But not as much as you. Kidnapping my daughter and forcing her to marry you… You’re despicable.”

  His mother’s high-pitched squeal caused Humphrey to bark. “Kidnapping? You kidnapped her?”

  Simon scowled at the room at large. “No.”

  Diana rose slowly. “He d-did not k-kidnap m-me.”

  There went her stutter again. Simon was going to throttle her father.

  “You went of your own accord?” her father snapped. “Why accept one duke only to throw him over for another? Did we teach you nothing?”

  “I’m a d-duch-duchess. Wh-what does it m-matter wh-who the gr-groom is?”

  The baronet shook his head in disgust. “Listen to you.” He curled his lip toward Simon. “Do you hear her? I can’t imagine you were aware of her defect when you decided to wed her. But the jest is on you, because you’re stuck with her now.” He looked back to Diana. “At least you are a duchess, even if your husband is a pariah.”

  Throughout this exchange, Diana’s mother simply stood there and watched, her face a mask of calm. In fact, she reflected no emotion whatsoever, as if she couldn’t hear the vitriol pouring from her husband’s mouth.

  Diana lifted her chin and stared her father in the eye. “Yes, I-I am a d-duchess. You owe m-me r-respect.”

  “I owe you nothing. You’re a duchess because I made you one, not him. All he made you was a whore.”

  Three sharp inhalations filled the room as all three women gaped at the baronet. Meanwhile, Simon’s hand curled into a fist. He wasn’t fond of violence, particularly after what he’d done—the revelation from his mother stole through his brain, momentarily distracting him. It was enough for Diana to flee the room before he could stop her.

  Torn between wanting to thrash her father and chasing his wife, he chose the only path he could. He ran out after her.

  * * *

  Diana nearly stumbled as she reached the landing of the stairs. She grasped the railing hard and forced herself to take a breath. But she didn’t stop. She tore up the last few steps and raced to their bedchamber, throwing the door closed as she ran inside.

  Her chest heaved, and her eyes were wet. She shook horribly as rage and sadness ripped through her.

  “Diana.”

  She couldn’t bear to turn and look at Simon. That he’d seen that horrid side of her father filled her with shame.

  “G-go away.”

  He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “Not a chance.”

  She lurched forward and moved quickly to the other side of their bed, putting it between them. “D-don’t t-touch m-me.” She couldn’t bear it just then. Not with the memories pouring in on her, threatening to drown her in their weight.

  “Please, Diana. Don’t let him do this to you. You’re safe now. I’m going to toss him out when I go back downstairs, and he’ll never be able to hurt you again.”

  An anguished sob escaped her mouth. “You think it’s over?” The question was a ragged whisper she had to force from her lips. “I c-can’t f-for-forget wh-what he d-did. It’s al-always with me. And ev-every t-time I f-fal-falter, ev-every t-time this w-weak-weakness c-comes o-over m-me, I’m r-re-reminded of my in-inad-inadequa—” She swore violently before shouting, “inadequacy.”

  It took every bit of self-control she’d learned to get that word out. Self-loathing filled her.

  “What did he do to you?” The question was low, and his gaze intense. “I’ll listen—and there’s no shame. How can I possibly think less of you after what I’ve done?”

  She hated the self-derision in his tone—it was too close to how she felt. They were a disaster, she realized. But no, he wasn’t. Not really. “Y-you’re a g-good m-man, S-Simon. Y-you j-just m-made a m-mis-mistake. Y-you w-were a-ang-angry.”

  “You really think I pushed her.” He sounded surprised, devastated. “After all this time telling me I wasn’t a murderer, now you believe it.” He shook his head. “I just realized that I didn’t really believe it.” He wrapped his hand around the bedpost. “I’d thought it was an accident and that you thought so too.”

  “I d-did. B-but kn-knowing what w-we know n-now… I-I’ve s-seen you wh-when you’re up-upset. Like n-now. L-look at your h-hand, Simon.”

  His head turned, and she watched the color drain from his face as he saw how white his knuckles were, how hard his hand gripped the wood, as if he could choke it.

  “Y-you gr-grabbed me l-like that in Br-Brereton, wh-when y-you m-met the Tafts. It hurt, and y-you h-had n-no idea.”

  He gasped, then dropped his hand and shook it out.

  His gaze was unfocused, his face pale. “I don’t remember arguing with her. I don’t remember that…rumor.” He turned from her, and then he went down, sliding to the floor against the other side of the bed.

  Diana rushed around and knelt beside him. His eyes were open, g
lazed, as they stared off into nothing. His breathing was shallow, his lips parted. Her heart was racing as she tried to reason what to do. He hadn’t fainted, but neither was he entirely there.

  She gently touched his arm, then his shoulder. Then she caressed his neck and murmured his name. It took another moment, but he finally blinked. He turned his head and squinted briefly.

  “The lines are back between your eyes.” He reached out and smoothed his thumb over her flesh. The touch was light and abrupt. His arm dropped back down to his side, and he looked away from her. “I loved her very much. I felt so lucky to have found that, to have found her. And then she was gone, and I thought I’d never be whole again.”

  The words poured from him like a confession. And they seared her soul. She’d known he loved her, but to hear it from his lips, and to witness the depth of the emotion he’d felt tore at her insides. How could she possibly fill the void Miriam had left?

  “I don’t remember that…what my mother said.” He shuddered. “I certainly don’t remember grabbing her, but then I don’t remember grabbing you either. I do now, but at the time, I had no idea.” He turned his head toward her again and blinked. “Am I a monster?”

  She shook her head fiercely, unable to speak. She was working so hard to control her speech, but emotion was playing merry hell with her efforts.

  He blinked again, and she realized there were tears in his eyes. “When I think of her carrying someone else’s child, and I loved her so much… Maybe I am capable of murder.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Love was such a foreign emotion. She knew hate could drive someone to do terrible things. Just look at her father. He hated her and her affliction.

  Simon went on. “It always bothered me that people said we’d argued. Our marriage was perfectly harmonious. There were no disagreements, no quarrels.” He looked up at the ceiling and squinted briefly, his head tipping to the side. “In truth, sometimes we fought over the last cake.”