by Sharon Page
Rosalind had died before he went to war. His father died while he was in battle. He would never have the chance to talk to his father again. Never have the chance to apologize for the last argument they’d had—when he announced he’d bought his commission, and his father told him it was a damned stupid and selfish thing for the heir to a dukedom to do.
Devon launched the book toward the long table that stood in the center of the large library. Glass exploded. Right in the middle of his void, and he knew what he’d done. Misjudged, lost track of exactly what direction he was facing, and threw the book out the window.
“Your Grace, I—I brought you this letter. It came for you.” Hurried footsteps crossed the floor toward him. The servant sounded like a young lad—a terrified one.
“Who is it from?” Devon asked, but he knew the answer even before he heard the lad’s frightened stammer. Who else would write to him?
“H-Her Grace, Your Grace. Uh … the Duchess of March.”
Why did his mother continually send him letters when she knew he couldn’t read them?
Of course he knew why. How else was she to communicate with him when he wouldn’t go home? He couldn’t go home, no matter how much he wanted to. Not when he could explode without warning and hurt someone he loved. He was too damned dangerous.
The letters might make his gut clench with guilt, but they let him know his mother and his sisters were well and safe. “You’ll have to read it, lad. What does it say?”
“I—I don’t know how to read, Your Grace,” the young servant said with a surprised tone, as though the boy thought he was cracked for asking.
His valet had read the other letters to him. But with Watson gone, there was no one left in the house who could read.
“Perhaps it’s time you learned,” he muttered. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. He had no damned idea why. It was instinct to move toward the letter, wherever the hell it was, and his shin smashed into something sharp and hard.
“Christ bloody Jesus,” he roared. Pain shot up his leg. First the book, now this. He couldn’t manage to get around in his own blasted house. He reached out and his hand slammed against smooth wood. He grasped it. It proved to be a small octagonal table. A useless piece of decorative furniture. In one swift motion, he hefted it into the air.
Seconds later the table exploded, hitting the floor with a thunderous crash. It made a skidding sound across the wooden planks. The satisfying crack of splintering wood echoed through the vaulted room. The footman yelped.
“Have that thing chopped into kindling,” he barked. “Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace.”
Feet scuttled across the floor. The lad puffed, wood scraped. Devon groped his way to the fireplace mantel. He wrapped his right hand around the edge of it. Now he knew where he was. He would stay here so he would not look like a helpless idiot again—
“Do you wish to break anything else?”
The feminine voice made him jerk around. It was his would-be courtesan. The woman who had hauled him out of a nightmare last night, whom he had almost hit in return. She had been in his house only a dozen hours, but he already knew the nuances of her voice. Sultry and purring when she was trying to seduce him, melodic and light when she laughed, and sometimes, like now, as crisp as unripe apples and surprisingly authoritative. Indeed, she was like no prostitute he’d ever encountered before. What had she been before the brothel?
“Could I help?” she added. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to throw something just for the sake of breaking it.”
“Break whatever you like,” he growled. “I’d never know the difference anyway.”
Anne’s heart lurched.
She regretted her sharp words. She should have been sympathetic rather than sarcastic. Her reaction had been instinctive—she hated the explosive and senseless violence men used. Her cousin Sebastian had used it to make her and her mother cower after he had inherited their home. Brutes used it in London stews to make women terrified and obedient. Madame Sin’s bodyguard, Mick Taylor, a former pugilist, had used it to keep Madame’s whores in line.
But now, when she saw how grim and pained the duke looked, Anne ached with compassion. He had simply thrown on trousers and a shirt—the tails of the wrinkled white linen trailed over his taut buttocks. His dark hair reached his shoulders. The thick stubble covering his jaw yesterday seemed to have grown more overnight. It looked like an unkempt beard this morning.
She remembered the beautiful gentleman with the dazzling violet eyes who had given her two gold sovereigns to spare her from selling her body. How different this man looked. The careless grin was gone. He looked so … ravaged.
Anne knew what she’d felt when she’d lost her mother, in that moment when she’d realized she had finally lost everything and everyone she’d ever loved. Anger. Horror. Despair. A pain so deep she had sat on the floor of their filthy room for two days, unwilling to move. Had the duke felt that kind of grief when he’d opened his eyes on a battlefield to sudden blindness?
She wanted to go to him. She wanted to slide her arms around his waist, press her lips to his wrinkled linen shirt, and trail kisses over his broad chest. If there was ever a man who looked as though he needed a woman’s loving embrace, it was the Duke of March.
She crossed the room, rounding a long table and a row of straight-back chairs. But when she reached the other end of the mantelpiece, a mere six feet from him, she stopped. It was mad. Yesterday she had touched his naked body intimately; now she stood awkwardly with her hands fisted. She yearned to touch him, but would it be welcomed? Softly, she said, “I don’t believe you truly care so little for your house and your belongings.”
He didn’t turn toward her. His thick lashes shielded his eyes. “Sorry, love.”
“I saw you collide with the table. It must have hurt you considerably. It frustrated you and you lashed out.” She suspected she sounded as her mother used to, when they had lived at Longsworth. Firm, sensible, very matter-of-fact. “I assure you I can nimbly get out of your way if necessary.”
His dark brow quirked. This time he cocked his head toward her. “You’ve seen me at my worst—I leapt upon you, I grabbed you by your wrists, and now you’ve witnessed the way I throw furniture across the room. This is why you cannot stay here, love. It’s impossible. I told you I would decide what to do with you and I have. I won’t be responsible for harming you.”
“I don’t understand why you are so certain you will.”
“Angel, I know what I’m capable of. I know what I’ve done. You cannot stay. My carriage will take you as far as you want to go. If you want, I’ll pay for your services and you can use that money to go wherever you want.”
How much would he give her for a few tuppings? For one moment she considered it … then rejected it. It wouldn’t be enough. She would have the chance to eventually escape only if she could coerce him to give her the kind of allowance and gifts a mistress received.
“I wish …” She wished there was some way to help him. To stop his nightmares. To help him cope with his blindness. When Grandpapa had lost his sight, it had been gradual, over years. Even then, he had been delighted when she would walk with him and describe the gardens and grounds of—of her home. And Grandpapa had loved to have her read to him.
Of course, her grandfather had not been tortured by horrible dreams or prone to fits of rage. He had been an elderly gentleman who loved country life, not a young duke in the prime of his life who had been a notoriously wild rake in London.
She gnawed at her finger. She hadn’t wanted to think of the past, and she’d thought it had nothing to do with her now. But perhaps it did. Would the duke like the same simple things that had so pleased her grandfather? Would they help him heal? Was it not worth a try?
“What if I could help you in other ways?” Anne whispered. She spied the rectangle of white gripped in his right hand. “I can begin by reading your letter to you, Your Grace.”
Before
Devon could say a word, the letter was plucked from his fingers.
He reached out to retrieve it, but to no avail. “You can read?”
“Of course,” Cerise said briskly, sounding much more like a governess than a saucy courtesan. “It is from the—the Duchess of March.” There came a soft crinkling of paper. Her voice faltered as she asked, “Do you have a wife, Your Grace?”
He had turned to the mantelpiece, his hands braced on the crisp edge of the marble. “No, angel. I have a mother.”
“Thank heaven.”
“It is a relief to you to learn I have a mother?” He had to admit, he was a fortunate man where his mother was concerned. She had been loving, gentle, and had finally lost her temper with him only when he’d dumped himself into scandal over another man’s fiancée.
“I just mean I would have felt terrible, having been your lover, if you’d had a wife.”
Her genuine relief and the gentle way she spoke told him she would have been plagued with guilt—a sensation he was familiar with. It surprised him, though. “Angel, explain how you could be so softhearted after working in a brothel.”
“I—I did not have many clients. I was very exclusive.” Now she spoke in a fast, nervous tone. “I always assumed they came to me because they weren’t yet married.”
Her naïveté astonished him. How had she stayed so ingenuous?
“Certainly I never asked any of my … clients about themselves,” she whispered. “They obviously did not want to have conversations of that sort.”
That brought a wry laugh to Devon’s lips.
Anne shivered as the duke gave a low chuckle. She didn’t believe she had revealed anything dangerous, but she had to take more care. She could not let him find out who she truly was. Distracting him was her best plan.
“Wait, Your Grace, I must open the letter.”
On a small escritoire positioned in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, she’d spotted a letter opener. As Anne snapped it up, she couldn’t help but look outside. Beyond the library lay a half-circle terrace of smooth flagstones, edged by a stone balustrade. Other terraces lined the sides of the building. Raindrops ran down the glass, and the rainy day deepened the green of the neat grass and lush, ordered gardens. Color still bloomed despite the approach of fall, flowers of gold and scarlet.
It was lovely. It was so much like Longsworth.
With shaky fingers, she slit the seal with the opener, then set it down—it was heavy, silver, and decorated with two exquisite and surely priceless sapphires. How easy it would be to take this. She could sell it for a fortune.
No. She couldn’t. Her mother had clung to pride, to propriety, even as she slipped down one rung after another, first working as a seamstress, then once, only once, letting a man buy the night. But to steal—that was to fall from the ladder completely and drop into hell.
Anne opened the crisply folded pages. There were two, and the letter was dated two days before. Clearing her throat, she began to read aloud. “ ‘My dearest son …’ ” Goodness, just that brought a little tug deep in her throat. She swallowed hard and continued.
“It seems there is no emotion you have not brought forth in me, Devon. For three years, I’ve known worry and fear, praying you stayed safe during war. Then frustration when you sent missives to tell us you would not come home yet and would make no plans to visit. I cannot think of you without knowing love, hope, and happiness, without smiling at memories of you as the stubborn, clever boy I adored.
“But now, dear boy, you have been giving me a grand lesson in despair.
“You cannot possibly believe we will think less of you or be disturbed by your injuries. We will do everything we can to take care of you. We long to have you close again. I have been yearning to embrace you for three years, and I am almost at the limit of my endurance.
“You must come home. It is as simple as that. You were a commanding officer in battle, and a fine one, from all accounts. A grand hero. As your mother, I have decided I shall issue you a few commands.”
Anne had to stop. To catch her breath. To let the words sink in. This was a private letter. Should she go on? But if she did not read it to him, who would? She bit her lip, then read …
“All of your sisters are here, including Charlotte and her twins, now two and a half years old. Both your niece and nephew are eager to meet their uncle, of whom they have heard so many stories. Charlotte is enceinte once more. Caroline, who is visiting without her husband, is expecting her first child and rapidly approaching her time. They worry about you, as do Win and Lizzie, and I worry about the strain this has placed upon them all.
“Lord Ashton wrote to tell us you are well yet still stubbornly hiding at your hunting box. My dear boy, this cannot be helping you. It would be far better for you to be with family. Your family, which has grown by leaps and bounds since you left England, longs to see you.
“You need love, Devon. From your family, and my dearest hope is that you will soon find love with a bride. A life filled with love would ease your troubles. I am sure of it.
“Come home to us and we will help you find a wonderful wife. You must find love, Devon, my dear, for love is the most precious thing. It heals. It gives happiness.
“What you need, my dear son, is a wife who loves you dearly—”
“Stop,” he barked.
The words were blurry and Anne blinked two tears away. She lifted her head. The duke had bit out the word. His mother had poured her heart onto the page, was pleading with him, and he had snapped as though he was irritated. She eyed him fiercely. “Your mother yearns to see you. She’s missed you. For heaven’s sake, why would you not go and see your family?”
“I can’t see my family.”
“You won’t go because you are blind? But they won’t care about that.” She thought of her mother, who had been ashamed when she became ill—ashamed she had fallen so low in the world, ashamed she could not take care of her daughter. All Anne had wanted was for Mama to be well. Nothing else had mattered. “They simply want you.”
“I thought Ashton paid you to service me,” he snapped, “not lecture me.”
It struck her like a slap, but he was right. She had forgotten herself. “I’m sorry. I won’t use my tongue for anything but your pleasure, Your Grace.”
He groaned. “Damnation. Even when you’re obedient, you make me feel the blackguard.”
She should stop, but she simply couldn’t. “I must say one more thing. Your mother is correct. You shouldn’t stay here. You do deserve to find happiness.”
“That’s more than one thing. And I won’t marry anyone when I can’t see.”
“Surely there are more important things than a woman’s appearance—”
“I am not going to marry anyone when I have to be led around my own home like a dog on a leash.” He glowered. “I won’t have a wife turn into a trembling bag of nerves like most of the servants in the house have become because they are so afraid of me. Do you think I want to fall in love with a woman, then sentence her to life with a lunatic who can’t control his rages, who sometimes crawls around on his belly because he imagines cannons are firing at him? I won’t take a bride when I could have a nightmare and accidentally strangle her in our bed.”
“I don’t believe you can’t be healed.”
“Angel, admit defeat. I appreciate your pretty voice and your exquisite body, but I’ve made my decision—you’re to go home, where you will be safe.”
Not safe, but absolutely broke and with no hope. “I have no money left, Your Grace.” She had not meant to reveal as much, but she was desperate.
“What of the payment Ashton promised?”
She’d forgotten that, because, of course, it didn’t exist. Lord Ashton had no idea she was here. “Lord Ashton won’t pay me now. Not if you’ve rejected me.”
“I’m not rejecting you. I have no choice but to send you away.”
“I wish to do what Lord Ashton asked of me. But what I really wish,
Your Grace, is to prove to you I would make an excellent mistress.”
Before she could argue further, her belly rumbled, then made the most embarrassing growl.
His brow lifted. “Did you eat any of the breakfast tray I sent?”
“No, Your Grace. I wanted to speak with you, and I was too nervous to eat.”
He sighed. “Well, angel, you must have some breakfast.”
There, she had done it.
Breakfast had arrived almost instantly after Anne tugged on the bellpull and the duke gave instructions to his nervous footman. After that, the duke had carefully avoided addressing her bold request. She had very little hope he would let her prove she could become his mistress, but at least he had not given her an outright refusal.
In the brothel, she’d learned all about waiting. Waiting for her next client. Waiting to escape. She’d never been patient when she was young. Whenever she had to wait, she was always frustrated and thoroughly unladylike—tapping her feet, pacing in circles, wringing her hands as though she wouldn’t survive.
That was how she felt as three footmen had brought enormous trays, a carafe of coffee, gilt-rimmed plates, and silver utensils.
She jumped up to pour coffee for the duke. “What do you wish on your plate, Your Grace?”
He waved away the idea of food. Apparently the ham, sausages, bread, and kippers were intended for her. She put the coffee cup in his hand, and he gruffly said, “Eat, love. Your poor stomach sounded hungry.”
It was true but embarrassing. Kat had tried to feed her, but even at Kat’s home she’d been too nervous to eat. The sight of food, the wonderful smells wafting from the dishes, made her jaws ache in anticipation. She tentatively took a mouthful. The instant the sweet and savory taste of the ham registered on her tongue, her hunger exploded. The duke stayed quiet and still, and she looked up to realize he was listening to her eat. To ensure she was eating, she suspected.
