“Your men found them. Rescued them and killed the bastard. Your men. Under your orders. You did your job and did it well. Sit, you look ready to collapse.”
“No. I must be getting home. Please express my gratitude to the earl.” Halfway out the door, he turned and exhaled. “I hope to hell I don’t see any of you anytime soon. Except in a social situation.”
***
Miranda was anxious to get home, but unfortunately, Spencer needed another day or two to recover. And as far as her aunt went, it probably wasn’t a good time to move her either. Even though she did nothing but sit in a lounge chair by the hearth in her room, she seemed content.
If only her aunt would look at her with something other than emotionless eyes. Seeing her that way was worse than terrible. Gone was the exuberant and happy aunt she knew and loved, and it tore at her insides.
When would she come back? The physician said her mind was protecting her from what she went through. When she was ready to face it, she would. But in the meantime, she was to be treated with care, but under no circumstances should she be ignored. Treat her normally and perhaps she would recover sooner rather than later.
So Miranda sat in a chair, next to her aunt, who reclined on a lounge chair, and told her about her day. And how tomorrow they hoped to move back home.
Perhaps if the weather fared well, they could ride in the park. On and on Miranda went, making small talk, hoping and praying to hear her aunt’s voice speak back. Her shoulders slumped when all that reached her ears was silence. She would not give up. In her heart she had to believe that eventually she would come around. Baker would not win.
***
It turned out to be two days later when Spencer, Miranda, and Aunt Violet moved home to a big welcome from Liz, Mary, Spencer’s mother and grandmother. Never had she felt so drained of energy. If it wasn’t for her husband giving her confidence about her aunt’s recovery she would give up.
After getting Violet settled inside the room she was staying in, she sought the comfort of her bed, planning to rest her weary mind and spirit. Claudia helped her undress down to her chemise and tucked her in. As tired as she was, she couldn’t manage to close off her mind long enough to allow sleep to come. Just when she decided to give up on napping, Spencer entered the room.
“Are you feeling unwell?” The caring in his voice turned her stomach to mush.
“No. Tired is all. How do you feel?”
“The pain in my head has finally dissipated, and I feel like a new man.”
He certainly did if the twinkle in his eyes was any indication.
“I thought I would join you, spend some time holding my wife.” As he undressed, her eyes were riveted on him. She never imagined a man’s body could be so beautiful. A contrast between soft and hard. Once, unabashedly naked, he pulled the covers back, climbed in the bed beside her and turned so they were face to face.
“Miranda. If you are not up to this, please let me know.” His eyes searched hers, his confidence from moments ago wavering. “I don’t care if for the rest of our lives all we do is hold one another close. Being with you in any capacity is better than not being with you at all. I have to tell you though, when I came to and found out Baker had you, part of me died inside at the thought of never seeing you again. Never being about to tell you how much I love you.”
“When I was locked in the cell, I was afraid you were dead. My heart tried to tell me you were alive, but my mind wouldn’t listen. My one regret was you. Not having had enough time with you to express my love and devotion. Never have I ever loved another. I’ve loved you for so long, you feel a part of me. You’re inside my heart, my body, my soul. And don’t believe for one moment I don’t want this. This joining of our bodies. Joining of two hearts into one.”
She reached out her hand and placed it on his cheek. “I love you so much. It used to hurt to love you when we were apart. But not anymore. Because loving you has healed my broken heart. Love me Spencer. Love me with your body and your heart.”
When he reached for her she breathed a deep sigh of relief, knowing their future looked bright. “Shall we try for your heir?”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
As he brought his lips to hers, she forgot about being tired or stressed. Being in Spencer’s arms, being cherished and loved by him caused the rest of the world to vanish. Nothing mattered but the two of them and the love they shared and the future that was theirs.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christine Donovan is an International Bestselling Author and PAN member of RWA. She lives on the Southeast Coast of Massachusetts with her husband, four sons, and four cats. When she is not writing or reading, she is either painting or gardening.
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or email her at [email protected]
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or Twitter at @cmdonovan
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
THE RELUCTANT DUKE
A Seabrook Saga, Book One
Available now
CHAPTER ONE
London 1816
“It appears, Your Grace, you have bested me and left me destitute.”
Thomas Seabrook, the Duke of Wentworth, met the eyes of Mr. Charles Hamilton, known as the New Bedford Whaling Tycoon, and could not shake off the prickling sensation that plagued the back of his neck. The Englishman had amassed his fortune in America during the past twenty years yet looked anything but upset at his loss. And it was a fortune indeed. Thomas could not even begin to contemplate his good luck. Deep down, however, intuition warned him to proceed with caution.
“Mr. Hamilton, how is it you came to be here today?” Thomas leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled on the table in front of him. He tried his best to appear relaxed and unaffected by the turn of events. “I’ve never had the pleasure of your company before. Nor have I heard rumors of your passion for the gaming tables. I do believe, sir, you were in over your head. Because of this, I will take the monies you lost, at least what is on the table. But I must pass on the rest.”
Gasps came from Thomas’s two friends at the table in a small private room at the back of White’s. Thomas ignored them. How could he, in good conscience, take everything this man had worked for his entire life? True, Thomas’s family was desperate for coin, thanks to the foibles of his late father, but he could not profit to this extent at the expense of another. Besides, he rarely indulged in games of chance. He had seen too many gentlemen of the ton lose everything in the gambling hells––their self-respect, properties, and fortunes lost in the shuffle of a card or the roll of bones.
Often gambling led to disgrace, scandal, and sometimes worse. He would not be responsible for this particular gentleman’s fall, could not subject this man’s family to what still haunted him on a daily basis.
Edward Worthington, the Marquess of Amesbury, spoke quietly into his ear. “Wentworth, do you realize what you are passing up? Here is your chance to regain your fortune and make the necessary repairs on your holdings. And bugger all, he might call you out. You have insulted his honor. Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Myles Fredrickson, the Baron of Norwich and heir to an earldom, added his two pence worth. “Have you forgotten your sisters’ dowries or your brother’s commission?”
Thomas had not forgotten anything. Bloody hell, how could he? Yet the tingling that had begun on his neck now spread down his spine. He never ignored his intuition and knew that no good could come of it if he ruined this man. Yet how could he, as a gentleman of the ton, ignore honor and integrity by refusing his winnings? And disgrace both Hamilton and himself in the process?
Hamilton abruptly pushed his chair back, crossed the room, and knocked on the closed door. From the room beyond a servant handed him a large packet, a packet Mr. Hamilton then held out to Thomas. “I’m aghast that you would insult my honor in the pr
esence of these two gentlemen. I insist you accept from me what you are due. I believe, Your Grace—” he dropped the packet on the table, the sound of it resonating around the small room, “these now belong to you.”
Without further ado, he bowed, turned, and left the establishment.
With unsteady hands Thomas drained his glass of brandy, tucked the papers into his waistcoat, and left without a word to his friends who tried to congratulate him on his good fortune. They could attribute his rudeness to shock, which indeed was the truth.
When he stepped outside, the cold blasts of wind and rain that shrouded London in midday gray did not register, nor did he remember that he had left his greatcoat, gloves, and hat at his club.
Thomas signaled his driver. Once settled within his carriage, he stared at the packet in his lap, ignoring the damp chill clinging to the inside of the coach.
***
The rest of the day and into the evening Thomas sat at the mahogany desk in his study at his home on Cavendish Square, a brandy bottle in hand, now half empty as he swigged it straight. The papers he had acquired, spread across his desktop, did little to ease his foul mood or the crushing weight upon his chest. Through it all, the gruesome picture of his dead father haunted his vision.
His father’s years of wasteful spending, drinking, and whoring had contributed to his declining health. Dead at the age of fifty-one, in the decimated body of a ninety-year-old. Thomas shuddered as he remembered finding his father, lying dead on the floor of his study. His wasted body and the putrid stench of vomit had hung sour in the air. He gagged even now as he remembered.
***
Several days later found Thomas back at his desk, his mind still contemplating his altered situation. The arrival of his valet, Giles, interrupted that.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, there is a gentleman here to see you.” Giles reached out to hand the duke a calling card, but Thomas waved it off.
“Read it for me.”
“Yes, Your Grace. A Mr. Charles Hamilton begs leave to see you. Shall I send him in?”
Thomas caught Giles’s critical gaze as it scanned the cluttered room.
“Perhaps you should meet him in the blue drawing room?” Giles suggested brazenly.
“Give me five minutes and escort him to me here.” So what if his study looked lived in? He had nothing to prove to this stranger.
Devil take it. What can the man want with me? And do I care?
He pondered this as he buttoned up the top three closures of his starched white shirt and tied his cravat. Thomas might be a duke and used to being dressed by his valet, but he was far from helpless. He tied a damn fine knot if he did say so himself.
Thomas scanned his study for his waistcoat before remembering he’d come down from his rooms without one. He had thrown all propriety to the wind the past several days––barely eating, bathing, or changing his clothes.
He put his bottle of brandy, his only trusted companion, into the deep drawer of his desk and waited for his visitor to be presented.
Though his friends Amesbury and Norwich had called each day since the fateful card game, he had refused to see them. What must they be thinking? That he finally needed to be committed to Bedlam? A knock sounded on the study door.
“Enter.”
Giles led Mr. Hamilton into Wentworth’s study and closed the door quietly after a silent bow. The small rotund man, several decades Thomas’s senior, was dressed impeccably in shades of brown. But if one looked closely, as Thomas did, the man’s skin looked grayish. He appeared to be terribly ill.
“Excuse the intrusion, Your Grace.” His visitor bowed his head.
“Please sit down, Mr. Hamilton.” The man sat, and Thomas continued. “What is your purpose in coming here?”
Was he here to reclaim his losses? Hope fluttered wildly in the duke’s chest.
“I’m here to see to the future of my estate and holdings in America.” Hamilton held up his hand. “Before you interrupt me, let me explain several things to you. I played you the other night. I wanted to lose to you. I wanted to get to know you in a familiar setting. See for myself what type of gentleman you are.”
Hamilton paused. “Your father and I were close friends during our younger days. After my family was disgraced, my father hung, and all titles and holdings stripped by the Crown, your father gave me money to start over in America. He was new to the title and had many obligations for those funds, yet he would never let me repay him. I’m repaying him now by saving your family from financial ruin.”
The duke opened his mouth to ask a question.
Hamilton ignored him. “Please let me finish. I’m also being selfish, for my daughter’s sake. I am dying. I’m not sure I will survive the crossing back to Boston, and I need you to take control of my businesses and the guardianship of my daughter, Emma. Everything is explained in these papers––everything you need to know about my daughter and my businesses and holdings. There is also a private letter for my daughter. Please give it to her upon her marriage or when she turns twenty-five.”
“But—” Words escaped Thomas as his world shrank down to his own pounding heartbeat and the gentleman facing him with so much pain and sadness in his eyes.
“I realize,” Mr. Hamilton continued as he rose from his chair, “all this comes as a surprise to you, but I assure you when you read the private letter addressed to you, you will understand my reasoning. All I ask is that you do not disappoint me where my daughter is concerned. Take her under your wing, introduce her into Society, and arrange a good marriage for her. I have made you my heir, with a substantial amount in a trust for my daughter.”
Hamilton hesitated, clearing his throat. “But whatever you do, you must not let her find out about our family’s past, about our card game, my illness, or how I die. And no one other than your immediate family and the two trusted friends from the gaming table must know any of this. It would ruin all I have planned for and done if the ton finds out my daughter’s real origins. I have left a letter for her explaining my illness and reasons behind my decision regarding you. I have not divulged my family origins and I want it kept that way. Some secrets will only hurt when unearthed. And my daughter will be hurt enough from my death. Keep my secrets.”
Mr. Hamilton rose, took a step toward the door, and turned. “I will not have her suffer for my father’s sins.”
***
Thomas could relate to Hamilton’s comment about a father’s sins. Did not his whole family suffer for their father’s sins? Against his will, voices from the past echoed around him. He could hear his own voice choking back the words he’d uttered to his mother after he found his father’s body. The scene began to evolve. Christ, not again. He would not relive the finding of his father’s body again.
Thomas guzzled the remainder of the bottle of brandy. More fiery liquid trickled down his chin and onto his shirt than reached his mouth. He hurled the bottle against the fireplace.
The loud crash of it shattering gave him little pleasure.
The following day, a note from Mr. Hamilton’s barrister dangled from Thomas’s shaking hand.
Mr. Hamilton is dead. Suicide.
How long he sat there Thomas had no idea. He started when his study door burst open. His burning eyes rested on Amesbury and Norwich, who held their noses as they entered the room.
“Good gracious,” Amesbury bellowed. “When was the last time you bathed? Damn Wentworth, my eyes are stinging.”
Amesbury pushed aside the burgundy drapes and opened the window to let in fresh air. He approached the sideboard and held up the empty bottles, then swung around with brows raised in silent question.
“Not a drop left, and, by the condition of this place, I’d say you haven’t left this room in days.” Amesbury left the sideboard to lounge in the chair opposite Wentworth’s desk. “My God man, for someone who’s always impeccably turned out, you’re a mess. Three-day beard, dirty, disheveled hair, soiled, ratty clothes. I’m almost embarrassed to call you
my friend. Did Giles leave you for another? What brought this on?”
Thomas glared at his friends. For some reason brandy had lost its appeal last evening. Today, though he didn’t look it, he was alert and sober, and he agreed wholeheartedly that his study reeked. But how dare they come in uninvited and criticize his appearance?
“Why are you two here?” Thomas demanded, his voice hoarse from lack of use and from abusing the spirits he’d consumed. He tried not to squirm in his seat as four eyes––two brown, two green––narrowed on him. “Damnation, will someone speak? I’m not horseflesh to be appraised for sale at Tattersall’s.”
“Well,” Myles began, head cocked to one side. “We were just wondering what is so bad you have yourself wallowing in self-pity. Did you not just come into a fortune?”
Thomas leaned forward in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. How fortunate were these friends who insulted him without consequences. Being a duke had its advantages and downfalls. Too many of his peers agreed with anything that tumbled out of his mouth because he was a duke. It was not so with these two.
Instead of explaining events, he handed over a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Mr. Charles Hamilton and the private letter addressed to him that had arrived with it. Patiently he waited for their reaction as both his friends read the documents.
Myles didn’t even try to hide his amusement as he handed back the papers. “What are you planning to do? Have you spoken with your family?”
“Do I look like I have?” Thomas shook his head. “They are due to arrive any day, and I’ve not decided what I’m going to do.” He slowly rose from his desk and paced the floor, his hands behind his back. “I might just forget the whole thing. I am considering contacting Mr. Hamilton’s solicitors in New Bedford to have them sell off everything and send the funds to me here.” He paused, rubbed the stubble on his chin, and winced. “As for the girl, there must be someone willing to take her in.”
“You mean to ignore a dead man’s wishes?” Amesbury asked with a sudden intake of breath.
Spencer meets his Lady Love Page 17
