Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  “She cares little for Luke,” said Mother after a pause.

  Jeremy just stared at her, seeing himself reflected in her expression. He’d only inherited Father’s chin and brown hair. Hareden men tended to be slight of frame, too, but Jeremy was both taller than most men and powerfully built. That was probably matrilineal. “I know. She is still his mother.”

  “Just as she cares little for you, but she is still your wife?”

  “Mother.”

  “Jeremy, I would find such behavior unseemly in a man…” She did, too. Paul always meant well and did not have a malicious bone in his body. He never, ever took a woman by force. He didn’t take a woman who didn’t want to be taken. But he took many women, whether a saucy society woman or professional woman of the street. Paul did not tell himself “no” and Mother despaired of it. Still, she doted on the man as though he were a small lad.

  “But you do not want to see me so ill-used.”

  “What mother would?”

  “Would your reply be any different if the marriage started as a love match?”

  “No!”

  Jeremy leaned back so that his shoulders touched the glass panes. “Of course it wouldn’t, Mother. You are a wonderfully upstanding woman. You apply the same principles to everyone.”

  “She makes a mockery of marriage.”

  “Well, yes. Yet, you do realize that if she were a man—if she were the duke—her behavior would be just this side of acceptable?” The irony was not lost on Jeremy. He was as interested in bedsport as his wife, but he did not go about pursuing his interests in the same fashion as she. Those closest to him might have remarked that he was being old-fashioned or too chivalrous. But it was partially his ethics and partially the fact that he had seen many such affairs go awry.

  When a young, brunette downstairs maid knocked on the door, Mother was still staring at Jeremy in consternation. The maid left the coffee tray on a table near the aubergine settee, bobbed a perfectly executed curtsy, then left. “That is not at all what I am trying to say.”

  “I know what you are trying to say. I am just thankful you have not said it to anyone important.” Through observation, Jeremy knew his mother just as well as he tried to know himself. It was not that he had preferred Father in any way over her, but rather that he and his father shared similar cool temperaments. He just hoped they did not share much else.

  He hadn’t needed to “study” Father the way he’d had to “learn” to understand Mama. Now, being of a certain age and having been left considerable means after her husband’s death, the Dowager Duchess of Bowland was in possession of a plain-minded outspokenness which, on several occasions, had been called impertinence.

  The trouble was that although she had a knack for reading people, she sometimes did not realize who she offended while expressing her opinions. In a man, her astute observations would have been called just that: astute.

  “I don’t think you should expose her directly,” said Mother.

  “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing her. But, more than that, I just don’t want to be dragged into a public conversation about…” He flapped his hand a little. “Morality,” said Jeremy. “Think of York.” He rubbed his face. Mother poured them each coffee.

  So it wasn’t the same kind of situation. Isabel was not a courtesan. But it felt like it could have the same chaotic implications. Then, perhaps he was only flattering himself because he was nowhere near as important as royalty.

  “I know you’ve noticed that some are already passing remarks about you, so I think your desire is misplaced.”

  Jeremy scoffed.

  “But this isn’t at all the same as that horrid business with the Clarke woman. Just send her away,” she replied, crossing the burgundy rug to hand Jeremy his cup and saucer.

  “That would be tantamount to exposure, Mother.”

  “It seems as though it would be a much more dignified situation.”

  Jeremy looked up at her with pity in his eyes. Upon his father’s death—the prior duke had died just before his heir’s wedding, five years ago, now—Mother seemed to have discovered a freedom that she had not enjoyed as a dutiful wife and mother. She had plenty of friends and, despite her proclivity to speak exactly what was on her mind at what was perhaps an inopportune time, she maintained a lively social calendar.

  Jeremy did not believe that she understood the extent of what she was suggesting. For him to have a wife who he only saw several times a year was a marked signifier of his own defeat. From his perspective, anyway.

  He could abide gossip. He could abide his wife stepping out on him. Lord knew it was not his heaviest cross to bear. But he could not abide defeat. For some reason, within his reasoning, sending Isabel away to one of the country houses—or the townhouse in London, which was closest—just meant that he was conceding. Conceding to her. He and Mother had not and would not speak of it, but he had an inkling that Isabel was biding her time until she was sent away. Even if it turned out to be detrimental to his wellbeing, he would not.

  “There is no dignity in any of the solutions.”

  “Oh, what utter tosh. You might be granted a little more dignity of your own if she wasn’t here.”

  Blowing on his coffee to cool it a little, Jeremy took a sip, and then murmured, “It is not so bad.” But it was. At least, it felt bad.

  “You shall have to do something before Luke comes of age.”

  “So much can happen between now and then. I haven’t even concerned myself with thinking so far ahead,” said Jeremy. He studied the landscape outside the window, then glanced at his right hand as though the words reminded him of what he had lost. It was not a hand as much as it was a stump. He fully understood now, two years on, that the choice had been infection and probable death, or one less hand. Most days, he was pleased with the latter outcome.

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “I find that my energy better serves managing the estate and my cases.”

  “You have a young son, now, Jeremy. His uncle cannot be the only male influence he has.” Mother was being unfair and she seemed to realize it, for she added, “My apologies. I know you spend far more time with the boy than your Harpy does.”

  “We all do. I must ask, Mother, what offends you most about the entire situation?”

  “You do not have the family you deserve.”

  Well, that was a very diplomatic way of putting it. His parents had not married for love, yet it was still perfectly obvious she loved her sons. She had the family she deserved without love and without his father’s loyalty. Father had been as omnivorous in his tastes as Paul was now, but he’d been far less nice in his pursuits.

  “I have Luke. I have you. I have Paul,” said Jeremy simply.

  “Well.”

  He had never asked his mother what she thought of his decision to love another man’s child. To Jeremy, it was as simple as the fact that Luke had not asked to be born, and he had not asked to be born out of wedlock. If he was not mistaken, the dowager duchess thought much along those same lines, for she did seem to adore Luke.

  “I do not want any of this made into more of an issue than it already is, Mother.”

  He thought tiredly of the last ball they’d attended, which was yet another event during which he realized that people were indeed speaking about him. His wife’s affairs. He’d rather they just stared at his stump and ask him how he’d managed to learn to cope so well with only his left hand. That was an easy answer, unlike trying to ascertain why, exactly, Isabel seemed so interested in every man’s bed except for his.

  He’d been left-handed to begin with, then forced by tutors and everyone else to use his right. When he lost the “correct” hand, it was second nature to start using his left all of the time. The much more crucial question was to ask whether or not he could manage all the tasks a two-handed man could. No. Not in the same way, at least.

  And given his tailor’s excellent skills, his sleeves drew attention away from his han
ds rather than toward them. Most of the strangers, new acquaintances, or clients he encountered did not realize his loss until they spent more time with him. Many, of course, might have heard the unfortunate news. But he’d been told more than once that his single hand was not immediately apparent. He had Mr. Kilgrave’s expertise with cloth and stitching to thank for that illusion.

  Mother rose to take a turn about the small, opulent room. It had been his father’s, but Jeremy had taken the opportunity after his death to redecorate. The furniture was all but new, and the walls glowed in shades of warm cream. Jeremy watched her pace.

  “I know.” Pointedly, she added, “But you would not be in the wrong.”

  “I don’t know how I could live with myself if I cast out my own wife.”

  “You would not be abusing her! Plenty of couples live such a life.” Mother waved her hand dismissively. “I wish I could have after Paul’s birth. After yours, even.”

  Finishing his coffee, Jeremy said, after a swallow, “What a thing to say.”

  A teasing smile grew on his face. His father had not been a cruel man to them, at least. What he had been, mostly, was absent. Jeremy could not remember spending more time than was absolutely deemed necessary with him. As he got older, there were more men to take care of his needs—valets, butlers, tutors, and so on—so there was little interaction between them, indeed.

  “I shall not be ashamed of the truth,” she replied.

  “You never are.” Jeremy sighed and put down his saucer and cup on the table opposite the window seat. “I do not think that the answer to Isabel’s, er, dalliances is to send her away from here. You know that’s just what she wants. Besides, the locals will probably take it badly. They already judge those above them. Let us not give them any more ammunition.”

  “They’ve never even properly met her!”

  “I don’t know if that matters. People will still talk.”

  He could imagine the censure. For all their practicalities and pragmatism, the locals could be remarkably staunch when it came to matters of the family. Chances were they believed he was stepping out on Lady Hareden. Not that he planned on asking their opinions. His mother was correct. They hadn’t met her. Isabel had shown no interest in anything other than a private, sumptuous wedding that was not open to anyone but friends and family. Nobody in the neighboring village of Aldbury, which was between Rosethorpe and London, actually knew what Lady Isabel looked like.

  She enjoyed London most of all. She spent no quality time here.

  Prior to taking his title, Jeremy had trained as a barrister with the expectation that he would be able to put his knowledge to use managing a formidably large and complex estate. Entering politics had its appeal, but that was more of a long game. In his early thirties, he was still a little too green to have amassed much influence. In the time he’d been home from war, he had steadily amassed a constant roster of clients who wished for his advice.

  Isabel called it a waste of time. But Jeremy felt strongly that representing or advising locals, as well as his tenants on the estate in Oxfordshire, was a proactive facet of management. Managing them, more precisely. The more smoothly everything ran, the better. And it was not as though he needed money, so he treated all of it like another course of study. Interesting, diverting and frustrating in turns, and ultimately undertaken for the greater good.

  It was a delicate balance. He’d been the Duke of Bowland for three years before leaving for Spain and his people liked him well enough. They were used to the duke and his family living away from the original, grand Oxfordshire house. That was a practice Jeremy’s grandfather had started, although he had never asked why Lord George Hareden made the decision. He supposed it might be due to Rosethorpe’s location because the man had loved the diversions in town.

  When Jeremy came back with one less hand, that seemed to prove his mettle. Oddly enough, where the ton could be vulgar in its curiosity but mask it with trite condolences, the common classes were respectful. He had given something up. He’d had something taken, he thought. It earned their trust more than learned speech and a crisp coat.

  Unfortunately, it had also given him numerous nightmares and strange, erratic fits of nervousness. Those were ebbing away, but still, he feared going entirely off the laudanum.

  “You believe gossip will damage your hobby?” Mother asked.

  He was not offended, for she did not view what he did as a true hobby. “Possibly, but more importantly, it could also damage my chances of a future political career. Do you not agree?”

  She paused in her walking and glanced at him, then out of the nearest window, which overlooked not the front of the manor, but one of the small gardens to the side of the wing.

  “It could,” she agreed. “If you are thinking about that, then perhaps I have hope for you, yet.”

  “I do not believe you should become hopeless,” said Jeremy with a kind smile.

  “I just find her irredeemably vulgar.” Of late, “vulgar” had become one of Mother’s favorite descriptors. He wondered which novel or essay she had read recently. An omnivorous reader, she was always taken by the vocabulary of whatever she’d read shortly after completing a work. It was one of her quirks.

  “You did not when we were married.”

  “To be honest, I did not have much of an opinion on her. I wasn’t really allowed to have one.”

  Jeremy gave a soft, amused scoff. “Was it that father found the match good for the Bowland coffers, and the woman attractive enough to stare at?”

  “That is more or less the size of it.”

  “I always thought as much. Better that he isn’t alive now, for if he were, he might have designs on his son’s wife.” Jeremy rolled his eyes, then looked at his mother. “Please, just keep your peace on this one topic. I don’t know what the future holds for me, but in case I ever do gain enough of a platform, it is most likely better that this fire is not made any bigger.”

  He poured them both fresh coffee. “I have already overheard Ladies Matlock, Cairns, and Franklin specifically state I am being taken advantage of. Lady Starling seems to believe, conversely, that I am a brute. Not everyone is set against me, I know that, but I’d just like to stop stoking the fires where I can.”

  Unsurprisingly, the men were quieter than the women, but only just. Jeremy thought about it. He did not feel emasculated so much as hurt. If he’d felt anything like love for Isabel to begin with, he’d be done for, now. For he hadn’t, and that was the only thing saving him. But their match was practical, brokered primarily by the prior Duke of Bowland who saw wealth to be added to the estate. His father was not necessarily a good man, but he was a decent duke.

  As a bonus, the wealth was attached to a pretty face from an esteemed family who’d managed to produce no male heirs and was desperate to marry Isabel, their eldest, off.

  Mother came to fetch her coffee, taking it with a murmur of thanks before he finished speaking. Then she tutted indignantly. “Lady Starling said what? I am good friends with her mother.” In more of an aside, she muttered, “I shall have to have a word with Joanna.”

  Joanna, presumably Lady Starling’s mother, would hear several words and most likely a monologue, Jeremy was sure. “But nothing about how irredeemably vulgar you find Lady Hareden.”

  “No,” grumbled Mother in defeat.

  “Thank you.” Jeremy placed his palm on her arm. “I adore your loyalty, but I do not think it is wise to do much of anything at present. If at all.” He took a seat in one of the settee’s matching chairs.

  Mother softened when she looked at him, and as he sat, she took a wooden chair, styled like a banker’s, that would provide more support for her back. “How is your hobby, then?”

  “Robust, but increasingly chaotic.”

  “Have you ever thought of taking on extra help?”

  “For something I don’t always do for hire?” he peered at her with a lopsided smile on his lips.

  But she surprised him. Shrugging, she sai
d, “Haven’t you made the case for it being part of managing the estate?”

  “I wasn’t sure who took me seriously.”

  “Paul always takes you seriously! And I did, too.”

  “You were just happy I had something more to keep me occupied after Salamanca,” said Jeremy.

  “Oh, at first,” she said, without any shame. “I thought you were too devoted to the laudanum.” Jeremy shifted in his seat and tried not to look too shame-faced. “It made me happy to see you doing things again. But when you explained to Paul and me the sort of things you were doing, I thought you were right about it being part of management. Prevention is always better than seeking a cure.”

  Drumming his fingers along his thigh, ignoring what she said about the laudanum, he said, “Perhaps an assistant would do. A secretary? Who knows—maybe this will all come in useful one day.”

  His records were becoming dreadfully untidy. His study itself looked apocalyptic, straight out of Revelation, with every available surface covered in papers and strewn with open books. It was the single room in the manor that he would not allow any maids to clean. At least he actually got out of it.

  He preferred spending his leisure time outdoors, and he and Isabel sometimes observed proper suppers. So he only spent a set schedule of office hours in the study. People in need of assistance knew where to find him then, while his peers made appointments that were not generally in the manor. They met in town in the auspicious confines of White’s or his much smaller, tidier London office.

  “It pleases me that you are not hiding yourself away like others who have fought, you know. But I also think having a secretary would provide you with useful conversational opportunities.”

  “He would be an employee, not a companion!”

  “Of course,” she said. “But you do so enjoy speaking about the estate and its matters.”

  Lord, was this her way of saying she was bored by everything Jeremy spoke about? His chief topics of conversation were Luke—who, as a very young boy had not merited much yet to motivate discussion between adults—and matters of social politics, agriculture, and law. There was little variety, and Jeremy was certainly not about to begin covering the finer points of warfare.