Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  It was as Paul had hoped. Once enough time passed, people moved on. They were so fickle. The simple fact was that Isabel had been adulterous, ergo Jeremy’s extreme actions had been rationalized as the final resort of a desperate man who did not want to continue to be made a fool. Sir Walter Able had been brought to court and paid the duke his damages.

  The juicier—or at least the newer—scandal was the former Lady Hareden’s marriage to the mere baronet who’d sired her son while she was still married to the Duke of Bowland. Rumor had it that the duke had actually given back the fees he’d been awarded, but nobody could prove it.

  Jeremy had returned the money, but they’d kept that very hushed.

  And Luke did not know who his blood father was. Yet. Ideally, said Jeremy, he would not find out. But Paul warned his brother and sister-in-law that there would come a time when Luke could easily read papers. When he would be meeting people who did not necessarily mean him well. The secret of his parentage would not be a secret forever.

  But for now, the boy was still a little bit too young to fully understand everything that had gone on, or what was stripped from him as a consequence. He was no longer Jeremy’s heir and that status couldn’t be restored to him, even if Jeremy wished it.

  Sometimes Luke said he missed his mama, but both Jeremy and Charlotte were infinitely patient and weathered the upset whenever it surfaced.

  In the end, Jeremy, Charlotte, Mother, and Paul had arrived at a consensus—although Paul was slightly less in favor of it. They had not explained that Jeremy was not his true father.

  Isabel had made it clear she did not want the responsibility of mothering her own son and appeared happy to leave him in the duke’s care. There was a strong probability that Sir Able would never want anything to do with Luke. After all, Luke had never been in his life before.

  Paul was certain that Luke would be all right, even if his path was unclear and would not be easy. He did have a family who loved him. Although the world was not kind to aristocratic bastards, much less most illegitimate children, Paul knew enough by-blows near his own age to say that many of them made out well. Few of them had the love of their blood families, either, even if they were clandestinely supported by their fathers. Luke’s situation wasn’t simple, but he was not and would not be alone in the world. That would make a difference, Paul was sure of it.

  “I’m a duke,” Jeremy all but spat, “not some jumped-up younger…” He caught himself and remembered to whom he was speaking. Paul smiled benevolently. “My apologies. If I make a scene, what would it matter?”

  “Think of Charlotte.”

  “I am thinking of Charlotte. That’s the trouble.”

  “No, not that way. Think of what would happen if you marched over there and demanded, I don’t know, a dramatic duel or whatever the hell it is you’ve got in mind. She doesn’t need any more stress right now.”

  Paul clamped his mouth shut just as he was going to divulge good news, but news he was sure Jeremy did not know yet.

  Charlotte had only accidentally told him she was with child when he’d caught her three weeks ago all but diving for a vase as her face turned a shade of pale gray. She’d been taken with acute nausea. Not knowing what was happening, Paul tried to tell her it was a priceless vessel from the Orient.

  As it happened, the priceless vessel was perfectly fine. Paul washed it out himself for fear that one of the maids or Mrs. Snow or Mr. Snow or Higgins would ask who, and why, someone had thrown up in the vase. His excuse, should anyone ask, was that he had been in his cups. But since he was no longer a lad, he expected that would bring about even more glares and remonstrations than it had when he was young. He was glad he’d accomplished his clandestine visit to the trough and ewer outside without being detected.

  Then, he’d had plenty of practice at clandestine visits.

  Jeremy did not notice Paul’s near slip of the tongue. “I just want to talk to the man who brutalized my wife.”

  “I don’t think that’s a prudent idea.” Paul rested his hand lightly on Jeremy’s left shoulder in warning.

  But as Paul spoke, Jeremy was already edging toward the supper room like an eager dog straining on a lead. “You may either accompany me, or not.”

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  He let his arm fall and followed Jeremy.

  This is not going to end well, he thought, feeling like he was walking to the gallows but looking, as ever, like he was having the grandest time.

  He couldn’t see Charlotte and prayed she was somewhere other than the ballroom. Ladies’ retiring room. Taking some air in the garden. Anywhere but here.

  Whatever happened, she would blame him for not stopping it. He loved Charlotte like a brother loved a sister, but she was not to be crossed. Like Jeremy’s, her rational nature hid strong feelings and a core of steel.

  Lord Rowling was not a decent fellow at all and Paul did not have any sympathy for him.

  Yet Paul could not blame Rowling for being confused when the Duke of Bowland and Lord Paul Hareden came directly up to him at a ball. He had never been introduced to either of them. Paul knew, much as he knew most people’s habits if they walked between this genteel world and the demimonde, where Rowling was apt to linger after-hours. But that was all he knew about Rowling apart from rumor—and what he had done to Charlotte.

  “Gentlemen,” Rowling said when he realized that neither of them was going to walk away from him as quickly as they’d arrived, “have we made each other’s acquaintances?”

  It was nothing but polite nonsense. Although Paul was not always recognized, Jeremy usually had been and almost always was in more recent days.

  “Do you recall a woman called Miss Charlotte Masbeck?”

  Lord, Jeremy was going straight for the kill. Paul peered at him askance. Unless Rowling had been living in a damp cave in the far reaches of the colonies, he had to know Charlotte’s maiden name.

  The question was whether or not he could put the name to a beautiful face from the past. It was the same with all men whose tastes ran toward the brutal, thought Paul. They ultimately didn’t care about the woman in question, did they? Paul took his eyes off Jeremy, who had a little muscle ticking in his jaw, and smiled at Rowling before he could be judged as impolite.

  “Oh, your grace, forgive the presumption, but everybody knows your wife.” Rowling smiled a wolf’s smile and Paul almost blanched. He didn’t know if Rowling was intimating the events of months and months past or if he was simply being lascivious. But either way, the relish in Rowling’s voice was chilling. “I must congratulate you. Lovely creature. Tonight, isn’t she wearing the yellow and—”

  Rowling had no chance to finish his sentence, however it was going to end. Jeremy’s fist had whipped out and the earl collapsed into one of his friends before Paul could stop his brother.

  “Good God, man!” cried Rowling, thickly. “What the hell was that for?”

  Blood was dripping from Rowling’s nose, landing in spatters all over his clean, white cravat and blue coat as he struggled to right himself. Other guests who’d been near him were beginning to stare. Paul watched as the little ripple began that meant they’d turned to their nearest neighbor to relay the events.

  “Really, Jeremy, this was exactly the sort of thing I was hoping we could avoid at the first notable thing we’ve all been invited to for months,” said Paul, schooling his expression to calmness and speaking as levelly as he could manage under the circumstances.

  “I know,” said Jeremy, almost apologetic, his eyes on Rowling.

  Paul shook his head. “As long as you know.”

  Neither brother moved to help Rowling, who was floundering a bit between the feet of his stricken friends.

  “Sorry,” Jeremy said to Paul, all the fury gone out of him.

  Rowling was known as something of a reprobate with macabre interests that his appearance did not belie, so doubtless there were some who would react with glee to his received assault.

&nb
sp; Nonetheless, this was a little too much public excitement for Paul’s taste. He said quietly to Jeremy, “I’ll find Lottie and have the carriage brought around, shall I?”

  As he slipped away from the scene, the last thing he heard Jeremy say was, “It’s a pity you did not wear red, Rowling.”

  He had to keep down a laugh.

  *

  “I cannot believe you broke Lord Rowling’s nose at a ball,” said Charlotte, sitting up against the headboard and watching Jeremy from behind as he splashed water on his face. He was naked from the waist up, so it made for quite the spectacle. His back rippled with muscle, and his slightly freckled skin was unmarred by any scarring.

  She tried to sound disapproving, but it was entirely a losing battle when faced with her husband’s body. And his bedroom in the London townhouse suited his coloring so well that she fancied he looked like one of the old masterpieces. She did love staying here.

  She had her own rooms in their houses, of course, but she really only used them to dress. Not a night had gone by in a year of marriage that saw them using separate beds. After their wedding night, Charlotte would not dream of it. There were times when Jeremy could catch her slightly off guard and his advances startled her too much. But on the rare occasion that it happened, he would not cajole her and she would try not to feel guilty. Eventually, she hoped those instances would subside entirely.

  “I didn’t realize I was going to hit him,” said Jeremy, “until I did.”

  “Lord, Jeremy, I haven’t given the man a thought since…” Since the day I told you what he did, really.

  Then he’d been at the Aldridges’ ball and she had not been sure if she was seeing whom she thought she was seeing.

  She had not told Jeremy who the man was, but Paul had. Blast him.

  “You might not have, but I often did.” Jeremy patted his face with a clean, dry cloth, then came to the bed. He rolled to his side and looked up at her, smiling sheepishly. The candlelight from the taper on the nightstand revealed the planes and hollows of his face, making him look sculpted from marble.

  It was very hard indeed to be angry with him.

  “I can’t say I’m pleased that the gossips have more grist. But I am happy his nose was broken, and I’m happy to be home earlier than we’d planned.”

  Gossip had been such a part of their lives that she really wasn’t fazed by more of it. Actually, it was only within these last several months that it really started to subside—or so she’d noticed, anyway, because it was hard to say with total accuracy when it had stopped being so omnipresent—and she realized what a mental toll it had taken on both of them.

  Yawning, she reflected that she hadn’t been raised to keep a duchess’ hours and did not think she would ever grow used to them. But she had a much better reason to explain to Jeremy why she was so tired. At first, she’d just attributed it to, well, everything. Her new life, the excitement, the end to all the waiting and not knowing.

  Then the early morning nausea set in and her breasts felt bruised. She had never been pregnant, so she confided first in her mother, who was overjoyed, then her friend, Irene, who was equally pleased. Both were sworn to secrecy until she’d reached what she thought was her third month, and each of them tried to offer advice in their own manner. Irene had recently left her post as a governess and just married, so her experience with pregnancy was much the same as Charlotte’s—nil. Her mother, on the other hand, had too much to say.

  “Sleepy, are you?” Jeremy let his hand wander under her night rail and Charlotte reconsidered telling him anything at all tonight. But now that she’d entered roughly the third month, she felt more confident telling him the truth.

  He loved Luke so much. They both did. This baby would not be a replacement for him by any means, but if she lost the child, she knew Jeremy would be devastated. That was just the sort of man he was. So she’d waited. She would be no less upset and, of course, she would tell him the truth if it arose. But she believed it would be better for him to hear of a miscarriage rather than have his hopes up, then dashed.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Husband, what if I told you I’ve been tired for days?”

  “I’d expect that, too,” he said, kissing her arm, then stretching a little so that he could kiss her shoulder. “Do you know, I found being a pariah rather restful? It was nice not to have to negotiate so many social events.”

  Charlotte giggled. “That’s an awful thing to say.” She tried again. “I think I shall need more rest in the near future bec—”

  He interrupted her by placing his hand on her thigh, his palm very warm against the fabric, and kissed her shoulder again. “I agree; you will need more rest when I’m finished with you.”

  “Jeremy,” she sighed, reluctant to stop his advances because she so wanted the pleasure they could bring, “I have to tell you something.” She tilted her head and looked down at him.

  He frowned and almost pouted, just a little. Then he nodded. Contrite, he rested his lips against her shoulder, rubbing his lower lip lightly on the cotton. “And I am interrupting.”

  As much as she wanted to savor the moment of telling him, the words all came out directly in a mess with no poetry whatsoever.

  “Well.” She blinked. “I’m with child. Have been. For about, oh, as far as I can tell, this is my second or third month. I know that pregnancies can be lost and I didn’t want you to worry, so I waited.” She knew it was silly and there was nothing for her to be nervous about, but she blushed at how jumbled her declaration sounded to her own ears.

  Those blue eyes she loved so much widened with shock. Then they warmed with pleasure.

  “I know you’ll probably be hoping for a son,” she added quickly, before he could speak.

  Immediately, he brought his index finger to her lips. “No, Lady Hareden, I am hoping for whatever healthy child you give me.”

  “But you don’t have an heir, yet,” she said against his finger.

  After everything, that was what she felt the worst about. Not only had she effectively taken away Jeremy’s heir, she had also been the reason why Luke was now untitled. Jeremy assured her that was not how he saw things, but still, she worried.

  “We have plenty of time to make one.”

  Her minor blush flared into a redness that she felt travel from her face to her neck. “And I don’t object to taking all the opportunities presented. But…”

  “Hush, Lottie. I love you.”

  About the Author

  Whitney is a bit of a wanderer and something of a bluestocking. She’s been telling stories since childhood, when she would rewrite the endings of her favorite books and movies (or add “deleted scenes” to them). When she’s not writing or reading, she enjoys cooking, dancing, and going for long walks with no specific destination in mind.

  Literary work comes naturally to Whitney and she’s very excited to be pursuing her passion – rich storylines, vibrant characters, and most of all, a happily ever after.

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