Heartbreak and Honor

by Collette Cameron

  She returned her attention to the commanding man, lounging wholly at ease, opposite her. “As for Craiglocky, I’m confident Laird McTavish would welcome me, but I’d be worse than a poor relation, living off his charity. I may have been raised as gypsy, but I do have my pride, if naught else.”

  Harcourt’s molded lips bent the merest bit. “I imagine it’s a mite hard to stomach, the forthcoming judgment and censure, and the choices you are being forced to make.”

  Alexa released a loud sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

  Oh, that’s duchess-like. Good.

  Let the duke see just how unrefined and inadequate she was. “It would be if I cared a fig for what those pompous nitwits think. But even if I did, I wouldn’t seek the pleasures of your arms and bed solely to keep their tongues from wagging.”

  Chapter 16

  Good God. Why did I say that?

  Alexa could have bitten her errant tongue in half for betraying her.

  Lucan’s dark eyebrows swooped to his hairline, his mouth sliding into a devilishly sensual smile. “Oh? I confess to being curious. Why else would you seek the pleasures of my bed?”

  Everything, from her breasts to her nether regions, contracted with strange heat. “What I mean to say is, no one should be obliged to marry.”

  “How disappointing. I thought perhaps you’d been fantasizing about bedding me.” He gave a wicked wink.

  The carriage’s interior had become suffocating, and she no doubt glowed as red as hot coals from warmth and chagrin. She shifted, uncomfortably aware of the dampness beneath her arms. A fan would be lovely, but she hadn’t thought she’d need one.

  For a walk. In October. In the morning.

  Stop your mental babbling and change the subject.

  “Why do you have to wed by Christmas?”

  “My mother’s health is frail, her heart extremely weak.” Real concern and affection tinged his deep voice. “She may not have long to live, and she begged me to procure a bride by the holiday.” He shrugged. “I could not refuse her.”

  A gallant, if somewhat misplaced sense of honor—one which resulted in a lifetime of heartache if he rushed in making his choice. The matter was none of her affair, however. “I’m sorry to hear it. I wish you luck in your pursuit of a wife, and,” she braved looking straight into his unfathomable eyes, “I hope we might still be friends.”

  Alexa forced a congenial smile, not pleased at the notion he’d be wed in a few weeks. Stupid, that. She didn’t want to marry Lucan, so why did the knowledge he’d soon wed another set her teeth on edge? She scarcely knew the man.

  “Most definitely, we shall remain the closet of friends, Alexa.” The way he uttered her name, a verbal caress, tantalizing and poignant, caused another wave of dampness in the most humiliating of places . . . between her legs.

  Only he had the disturbing ability to turn her into a soggy wretch.

  His expression amused, but determined, he raised her hand to his mouth, and unblinkingly meeting her gaze, brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You see, I’m not willing to take no for an answer just yet, and you readily admit, you have few alternatives but to marry.”

  Her stomach tumbled end-over-end, and she pressed her other hand to her cavorting middle. The ruddy man didn’t know when to concede defeat, did he?

  “Bah, you’re hopeless. I am not marrying you. Let the matter go.”

  Lucan winked and released her. “Well then, if you refuse to discuss marriage, at present, perhaps I may persuade you to allow me to escort you to the theater tomorrow?”

  He settled in his seat once more. Surely, he realized the longer they remained in the carriage, the more risqué it appeared.

  “I’m not sure . . .” She must go inside.

  “The Needhams do plan to attend. One of my footmen heard it from the Wickersham’s footman. He was told by his cousin, the Potteridge’s maid—she is to marry the Flavelle’s driver . . .” He scratched his chin, and scrunched his nose. “Or was it the Flavelle’s maid who is cousin to the Wickersham’s footman, who told—”

  “Yes, yes. Do stop prattling.” Alexa couldn’t restrain her giggle. Absurd man. “I shall go with you, if only to make you hush your litany of drivel. Though how you’re to pursue eligible misses with me on your arm, remains to be seen.”

  Soberness replaced Lucan’s jovial countenance. “Alexa, I won’t have you battered by idle tongues. My position affords me power and influence. Few will dare whisper of today’s occurrence in my presence. I have persuasive friends who, at my behest, will not hesitate to rally round you as well.”

  He meant to protect her? To champion her? Warmth blossomed in the vicinity of her heart.

  He sent a contemplative glance to the street. “The sooner you foray into the viper’s nest, the quicker the claptrap can be quashed.”

  Appreciation misted her eyes and formed a lump in her throat. “Thank you. I fretted about the evening, but it’s my first venture to the theater, and I’m eagerly anticipating the performance.”

  “It’s settled then. You and the Needhams shall sit in my box.” Once again, humor lit his unusual eyes as his mouth made its familiar upward curve.

  “I must be off. Thank you again.” Alexa scooted across the seat, prepared to open the door, but the outrider did so before she touched the handle. Almost as if he’d been listening. At his impudence, she contrived her severest look and hopped from the conveyance.

  Lucan laughed. “Ought to call you a rabbit or a kangaroo.”

  What the devil was a kangaroo? Must be something that hopped or jumped about. And botheration, ladies—duchesses—did not spring from carriages like frogs.

  “I would have helped you, miss.” The outrider dropped his impertinent gaze as another carriage lurched to a stop behind theirs.

  She turned to the interior as much to thank Lucan as to get one more glimpse of him. Her craving for his presence surpassed an opium abuser’s need for their pills or laudanum. “Thank you for the heather. It means a great deal to me and reminds me of home. Will you . . .?”

  She glanced away.

  Asking him to call today was outside the bounds. She’d refused his proposal, twice in less than fifteen minutes, but he was taking her to the theater tomorrow evening.

  Upon spying Minerva—striking in an obviously new burgundy and black striped traveling costume—and her usual entourage assembled on the sidewalk, Alexa groaned inwardly.

  What now?

  Harrison wore his habitual gloating expression, and Shona sported red-rimmed eyes, blotchy cheeks, and an ill-fitting saffron gown that added to the sallowness of her woebegone countenance.

  “I shall call this afternoon, Alexa, rest assured. I have some important business to attend to first.” The duke inclined his head and pulled the door shut, an enigmatic smile teasing his lips. His gaze skimmed the new arrivals, narrowing for a flash, before he thumped the ceiling. “Until tonight.”

  He winked and gave a jaunty wave as the carriage lurched ahead.

  Lucan’s cocksureness ought to irritate her, but Alexa enjoyed crossing words with him, and the man seemed a jovial sort. And handsome. Too handsome for his own good.

  And mine.

  Knowing full well she’d have to endure a strained conversation with her stepmother once inside, Alexa closed her eyes for an instant and silently prayed for a miraculous reprieve. Say, Seonaid’s early arrival. Or the tinkers’ unannounced visit. Or an angel descending from heaven and requesting shortbread and black tea.

  Perusing the street, she lifted her skirt and stepped onto the first riser.

  “Young lady, a moment, if you please.” Minerva stalked to the stoop, leaving Harrison and Shona beside the carriage.

  Confound it.

  Grateful no passersby overh
eard, Alexa pushed the hair, which escaped her bonnet earlier, behind her ear. “Is something amiss, Minerva?”

  “I’ve tried to be gracious. I truly have.” Minerva’s breasts rose and fell in her agitation, and tears swam in her tawny eyes. She cast her angry gaze to the pavement, her voice quivering. “And Lord knows, I’ve prayed for strength and patience, tried to be understanding, although you’ve thoroughly disrupted our lives.”

  A foursome strolled along the street’s opposite side, and a finely dressed woman, holding the hands of two young girls, propelled them along the sidewalk a scant distance beyond Minerva’s carriage. Two dandies on horseback approached as well.

  Lord Craven and Sir Howard from last night.

  Perfectly wonderful.

  “Why don’t you come inside where we can discuss whatever has you upset in privacy?” Alexa ascended another two stairs. She didn’t need more disreputable talk regarding her.

  Harrison indolently crossed his ankles and leaned against the carriage, while Shona continued to splutter noisily into a kerchief and tossed Alexa accusing peeps between snuffles.

  Alexa scowled at the shut door.

  Where was the butler, for pity’s sake? Or a footman? Even a maid, for the love of God? Surely, someone had noticed the duke leaving and Minerva arriving.

  Still fuming, Minerva followed Alexa, apparently—and most regrettably—oblivious to their potential audience.

  “It’s not enough you reappear and jeopardize Shona’s inheritance, but now, you have the gall . . . the . . . the audacity, to attempt to steal her best hope for a brilliant match?” Her eyes mere slits, Minerva jabbed her parasol’s tip in Alexa’s direction. “She and Lord Renishaw are practically betrothed. I have anticipated an offer for her hand any day.”

  “Pardon?” Alexa’s jaw slackened, and the queerest urge to giggle gripped her. Shona and Renishaw? No. That wouldn’t do at all. “I did no such thing. That’s utterly absurd.”

  Renishaw, God rot the libelous rat.

  The couples across the street slowed their steps, and the men riding exchanged amused glances.

  Alexa trotted up the last pair of steps, anxious to get off the street. Lips pressed into a taut semblance of a smile, she rapped the knocker. Hard. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  Sending a furtive glance to the lane, she clapped the knocker again. And again.

  God’s toenails. Open the blasted door.

  The door flung open as the horsemen, the couples, and the nursemaid towing the girls simultaneously reached the Needhams’ house, their enthralled attentions trained on the stoop.

  “Alexandra Atterberry, I have just learned . . .” In a complete dither, Minerva made no attempt to temper her voice. “You tried to publically seduce Lord Renishaw.”

  Chapter 17

  Lucan handed his cane and hat to Houston. “Send for Darley at once, please.”

  “He’s waiting for you in the study, sir.” Houston shut the door. “I took the liberty of offering him a glass of sherry. Shall I tell Cook to expect him for luncheon?”

  “He’s waiting? But why?” Lucan dragged off his gloves then dropped them in the butler’s extended hand. “Rather early for spirits, isn’t it? Is something amiss?”

  Much like a bee buzzing about in its compulsive search of nectar, Darley seldom remained idle for more than a few moments. That he perched in Lucan’s study with drink in hand suggested his news from Derbyshire mightn’t be pleasant.

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Your Grace.” Houston raised his chin. “Mr. Darley is not in the habit of confiding in me.”

  Lucan cocked a brow. “Houston, don’t feed me that gammon. A fly doesn’t fart in this house without your knowledge. Now cut line.”

  “That may be true, but your man of business is tediously closed-mouth. He refused me a hint. Not even the tiniest one.” Houston pursed his lips and disdainfully thrust his chin. “However, given the noticeable tenseness about his person when he arrived, I deduced a glass of sherry might be beneficial.” His chin edged higher. “I trust I did not overstep the bounds.”

  He knew good and well he hadn’t.

  “Not at all, Houston. You’re to be commended for your efficiency.”

  Houston’s nose lowered a forgiving degree. “Shall I see to luncheon now?”

  Lucan waved him off. “No need. I’m meeting Bretheridge at White’s, but I would appreciate fresh coffee, and please let Smythe know I am staying in this evening.”

  “Very well, sir.” Houston turned on his heel, and nose pointed ceiling-ward once more, trod the passageway’s length.

  Clearly, everything was not well.

  A piqued majordomo proved almost as unpleasant as a peevish woman, the blessed difference being that the butler spared Lucan his histrionics and weeping. Pouting, however, Houston had perfected. He took his position seriously and considered himself slighted if he wasn’t privy to the intricacies of every aspect of Lucan’s life. He proved worse than Smythe, in that regard.

  Lucan strode to the study, curiosity grappling with trepidation. A table clock declared the hour half past eleven.

  He’d arranged to meet Bretheridge at one o’clock, first intending to scratch out Renishaw’s wager on White’s betting-book—hadn’t been done before, but he’d give it a go, nonetheless—and then set Bretheridge to rallying their friends to Alexa’s defense. Hell, he might confide he intended to marry the fascinating gypsy-turned-lady. If he could persuade her to come round in the next few weeks. Damn too few weeks, at that.

  Mayhap Bretheridge would have an idea or two to aid Lucan in his quest. After all, Bretheridge’s lady’s affections had been hard-won, too.

  Darley, his glass full, and his squat body propped against the sill, gazed out the window but turned upon Lucan’s entry. His grim countenance below grizzled eyebrows sent Lucan’s stomach lurching.

  He paused at the threshold. “What has happened?”

  “Fire at the mill. Two men killed. Several more injured. Mill’s a total loss.” A typical, succinct report from Darley; not a chap to waste words. He squared his shoulders and gave a confident nod. “Arson.”

  “Bloody hell.” Lucan hurried directly to his desk. “The mill is the livelihood for more than a hundred men. Any idea who started the blaze?”

  “No.” Darley set his glass aside before jamming a thumb inside his waistcoat. “During the chaos, a night watchman saw men running from the loading docks. He cannot be positive they weren’t workers, though.”

  Given the irregular events at Chattsworth, a fire at Lucan’s mill seemed too deuced coincidental. Still, Renishaw had polluted London with his presence since Lucan arrived, and to his knowledge, hadn’t left.

  He’d hired it done, then.

  Easy enough to do if you had sufficient blunt. Renishaw seldom bragged deep pockets, however.

  Lucan pressed a finger to his left eyebrow to appease the niggling ache behind his eye. It often occurred when he hadn’t consumed his morning coffee, and he’d no one to blame but himself. He’d skipped his usual pot in his eagerness to acquire heather for Alexa. What had come over him—gadding about in search of purple posies before his morning libation?

  Heather. Not posies.

  He couldn’t be smitten already. Could he?

  Her flippant remark at the ball about not marrying had ruined his ability to sleep. He’d sat in his study nursing a Scotch and plotting ways to change her mind until two in the morning. Her declaration drove his fretful ruminations to Scotland’s remote Highland crags and over their hostile cliffs into the wildly churning seas below.

  After flopping around in his bed for hours, his mind refusing slumber’s seduction, he’d risen at six.

  Today, of all days, he depended upon the strong beverage. He pressed his finger harder against a
nother twinge. “The fire started at night?”

  “Yes,” Darley nodded. “Around one.”

  Where was Houston with the brew anyway? “Why the dead and injured then?”

  “Loyalty.” Darley grimaced. “Risked their lives trying to save the factory.”

  Lucan’s gut twisted again. “The men killed. Had they families? How many workers are injured?” Compiling a mental list of the most urgent matters to address, he removed foolscap from a drawer. He paused, quill in the air. “Are they getting medical treatment?”

  “Yes, they had families, Your Grace.” Darley withdrew a crumbled paper from his coat pocket. He held it up. “I took the liberty of retaining a doctor. Once he learned I was in your employ, and you would pay his fees, he was anxious to be of service. His information is here.”

  He slid the note across the desk.

  “That was well done of you.” And the most words Lucan had heard the man use at any one time. Ever. He jerked his head toward a chair. “Have a seat. I need the particulars.”

  Forty-five minutes later, he handed Darley a short stack of missives. Relaxing into his chair, Lucan released a gusty sigh and rubbed his nape.

  The destruction of a profitable business meant nothing compared to the loss of two loyal employees and the hardship the others would endure without a means of employment. Rebuilding the factory was paramount. The construction would provide jobs in the interim.

  Lucan pointed at the sealed letters in Darley’s grasp. “Those give you the authority to do whatever needs to be done to provide for the widows and assure the others get treatment and anything else they require. You’ll need to see to the factory’s rebuilding at once, as well.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Darley nodded and tucked the papers inside his coat. “Anything else?”