When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  “I’m sorry I don’t have any boots for you to wear,” she said quietly. “I thought mine might do but I fear your feet are much larger.”

  “A curse that affects the men in my family.” He couldn’t be certain but she appeared to be blushing. Interesting.

  “I thought about asking one of my brothers to lend me a pair but then I’d have to explain . . .” Her voice trailed off as she lifted a delicate shoulder. Hard to believe now that shoulder had provided him with such solid support the first night, when she’d never waivered in her determination to get him up the stairs so she could tend to him.

  “That wouldn’t do.”

  “I’m afraid not. I know you’re not fully recovered, but I think you’ve healed enough that you won’t bleed to death in the carriage.”

  “That’s jolly good news.”

  She lifted her gaze to him. “My brother has a fine carriage. I’ll instruct the driver to go slowly.”

  The time had come, the minutes left to them were slipping away, and there was still so much about her that he didn’t know, that he wanted to know. “I can’t imagine a merchant or trader would have allowed his daughter to work as a step-girl.”

  “I should hope not.” Her focus returned to her needlework, and he found himself envious of his clothing because it garnered her attention.

  “I’m striving to be delicate here, but you don’t speak as though you come from the streets. And if you own a tavern, you must have had a basic education.”

  “A ragged school opened near where we lived and my mum made certain we went. She struggled to read and cipher, and always felt her lack of learning had limited her options for finding work when she became a widow. She wanted us to have better lives.”

  He was familiar with ragged schools, so named because most of the children were destitute and came to school dressed in rags. The Earl of Shaftesbury was legendary for his commitment to establishing the free schools in the poorest sections of Britain, a good many of them here in London. Thorne didn’t like having the confirmation that she’d grown up in poverty. She’d obviously risen above it. His present surroundings were Spartan, but he recognized well-crafted furniture when he saw it. “You seem more educated than that.”

  “I’ve picked up a few things here and about.” She lifted the garment until she was able to bite off the thread. “There. That should do it.” She tossed the shirt onto his lap and stood. “Do you think you can dress without my assistance?”

  Apparently, he wasn’t going to learn anything else about her and rather regretted that. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m going to let the driver know he needs to finish his pint as we’ll be needing him soon. I’ll return shortly, and we’ll see about getting you on your way.”

  She headed out of the room, closing the door in her wake. He couldn’t seem to find the wherewithal to function, to put on his shirt and trousers. He should be happy, ecstatic, about leaving. He needed to return to his life, his quest, and his responsibilities. But he wasn’t happy—at all.

  Near the hour when she’d first discovered him, with one arm securely wrapped about his waist, she ushered him out her door and began the slow, arduous trek down the stairs. From her box of items abandoned by customers, she’d managed to find a walking stick. Not a fancy one, but it would help support him so he could keep the bulk of his weight off his bad leg.

  The tavern was closed up for the night. The streets were mostly inhabited by rodents, scurrying about. Mick’s carriage was not too far off.

  “Good God, what’s this then?” the driver suddenly blurted, charging up the stairs, his heavy footsteps causing them to shake and rattle. He eased her aside, taking over her role.

  She hated relinquishing her claim on Thorne, but it was pointless to argue with the coachman. Besides, the stranger who no longer seemed like a stranger didn’t belong to her, not really. She’d never see him again after tonight. Perhaps she should have given him another day to heal. Silly chit. She had a business to run and he had a life to get back to, chasing whatever dream had brought him here in the first place, a dream that no doubt involved the woman for whom he was looking, the one he’d mentioned during one of his less lucid states.

  When they reached the carriage, he resisted being shoved inside. Instead, grabbing the door opening with one hand, he turned to her and ever so gently cradled her face with the other. “I don’t know how to properly thank you.”

  “Capture that dream you were chasing, but do it with a bit more care.”

  His grin was small, but a grin all the same. “And at a more reasonable hour, I daresay. Thank you, Gillie.”

  She felt an odd stinging in her eyes. If she were the sort of woman who wept, she might have thought the discomfort was caused by tears. “You take care of yourself now.”

  “I shall. You be happy.”

  “I always am.” Or she had always been. Why wasn’t she overjoyed by the prospect of him being on his merry way so she could return to a life she’d always cherished?

  With the driver’s assistance, he managed to get into the carriage. She heard their low voices, no doubt as they discussed where he was to be taken. She was grateful that she couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t be tempted to stroll through his neighborhood and past his residence in the hopes of running into him. The coachman slammed the door shut, doffed his hat at her, and climbed up onto his seat. With a flick of his wrist, a slap of the reins, he urged the horses into a steady clip that had the conveyance disappearing quickly into the fog, leaving her with an unsettling sensation that it was taking a part of her with it.

  “So who was that?”

  With a low groan, she swung around and glared at Mick. “You were supposed to go home hours ago.”

  “Did you think I couldn’t tell you were hiding something, Gil? I couldn’t see him clearly, but he looked to be a beggar. How did he come to be with you?”

  She wanted to tell him it was none of his business, but her brother wasn’t one to give up easily. “He was attacked a few nights ago. Injured. I ran the ruffians off. I was only caring for him until he was strong enough to be on his way.”

  “And you felt a need to keep that from me?”

  Sighing, she rolled her eyes. “A man in my quarters. I thought you might force me to marry him. He feared you might.”

  “He should be so lucky.”

  Stepping nearer, he placed his arm around her shoulders, drew her in close. She was only an inch or so shorter than he, which made it easy to press his head to hers. “Gil, you never have to keep secrets from me. There is nothing you can do, nothing you can say that I would judge harshly. And I would certainly never insist, under any circumstances, you marry a bloke you had no wish to marry.”

  Deep inside, she’d known that, of course. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

  “Any idea who he is?”

  She shook her head. “He goes by Thorne. That’s all I know. You’re not to ask your driver where he delivered him and you most certainly are not to pay him a visit.”

  “I gave you my word earlier I wouldn’t make inquiries of my driver. I’m not a man who goes back on his word.”

  “I know, but I can tell you’re tempted.”

  “I am, but I won’t. Do you know where he’s going?”

  “I don’t want to know. He seemed pleasant enough. Spoke like a toff. But it really doesn’t matter. I’m certain I’ll never see him again.”

  Chapter 6

  He was grateful to have arrived in the dead of night. The only person about was a young footman who’d no doubt been charged with being on hand to assist him when he returned from his adventures and, based upon the rubbing of his eyes, had seen fit to fall asleep in a chair in the foyer.

  When fully awake, the man dropped his jaw and widened his eyes, obviously unprepared for the sight of his master’s disheveled appearance and lack of footwear. “Your Grace.” He sounded positively appalled.

  “Alert my valet I’m need of his assistance, t
hen fetch my physician. Be quick and quiet. Awaken only those needed to see to your task. There is no reason to alarm the entire household.”

  “Yes, sir.” He bolted down a hallway that would eventually lead him to the servants’ quarters.

  Thorne began the slow, arduous climb up the grand sweeping stairs, using the banister to pull himself up one step at a time, recalling another night when he’d done the same, only a woman had been tucked beneath his arm, providing him with support and words of encouragement. He found himself running those same words through his mind now. The pain was not as great, but the discomfort was still there. He was far more weakened than he would have liked, but he was regaining his strength. A few more days and he’d be as good as new.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned down a corridor that took him away from the bedchamber and suite of rooms designated as belonging to the duke and duchess. He had yet to be able to bring himself to claim those rooms as his since it would mean casting his mother from hers and he had no desire to sleep in a bedchamber next to hers. As long as she resided in his residence, those rooms remained her domain.

  By the time he arrived at his bedchamber, he was breathing heavily and sweating profusely. His stubborn nature had refused to allow him to rest until he’d reached his destination—the same stubbornness he’d employed the night he met Gillie, who had demonstrated an equal stubbornness. Gingerly he lowered himself into a plush brown chair near the fireplace. It was an odd thing to sit there wishing his rescuer had witnessed his accomplishment.

  “Your Grace.”

  He wasn’t surprised he hadn’t heard his valet enter. The man had the good manners to walk about without making a sound. However, he did hear the concern etched in his voice. “Speight. It seems I got into a spot of bother. Help me undress. The physician should be here soon.”

  “Your absence had us most worried.” His valet went to work.

  “I was not in a position to send word.”

  “So it would appear,” Speight said slowly once he’d removed the shirt and encountered the bandages. “The duchess will be most distressed.”

  He very much doubted that. “We’re not going to tell the duchess. I’m on the mend.”

  With assistance from his valet, he discarded his trousers.

  “Whatever happened, sir?” As a rule, Speight never pried, but then never before had Thorne shown up in such a state.

  “I was set upon by thugs.” He made his way to his bed and crawled beneath the covers. “Bring the physician here as soon as he arrives.”

  “Yes, sir.” Speight gathered up Thorne’s clothes and headed for the door.

  “Where are you taking those?”

  “To the rubbish heap.”

  Which was where they belonged. They were no longer serviceable. Still, he couldn’t help but think that his rescuer’s stitching deserved a better end. “Place them in the wardrobe for now as a reminder of my stupidity.”

  “As you wish.” He’d taken two steps before stopping and looking back at Thorne. “We were supremely disheartened to hear the marriage did not occur.”

  He suspected they were more discouraged there was not yet a new duchess of Coventry House.

  “We are all praying for Lady Lavinia’s hasty recovery from whatever illness befell her.”

  Thorne slammed his eyes closed. Ah, yes, everyone believed she was ill. He had to find her, discover why she had felt a need to run, and determine if they could still make a go of it, lest he be made to look a fool. Although that result might have already occurred. “Send in the physician when he arrives,” he repeated, not feeling a need to confide in his valet.

  He must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing he knew someone was gently nudging his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he was disappointed to find himself staring into the bearded face of his physician and not the perfect oval of the woman who’d cared for him. “Anderson.”

  “Your Grace. I understand you’re in need of my services.”

  He gave a brief accounting of his injuries, avoiding the specifics of what had led to him being attacked. Then he endured the discomfort of the doctor examining each wound.

  “Graves is quite skilled, Your Grace. You’re fortunate he was called for. I see no sign of putrefaction or infection. I daresay he cleaned each wound thoroughly before stitching it up as they all seem to be healing quite nicely. How do you feel overall?”

  “Tired. Weak. Frustrated by my limitations.”

  “You no doubt lost a considerable amount of blood. I’d stay abed a few days if I were you. You’re on the mend, but you don’t want to push it.”

  After Anderson left, Thorne told Speight, “When the duchess makes an appearance, inform her I have returned but am not quite myself, and will see her when I am. Send a missive to the Earl of Collinsworth and alert him I shall call on him Sunday afternoon.” The wedding was to have taken place on Wednesday. Lavinia had chosen that particular day because according to an old wives’ tale, it was the luckiest of all days. Perhaps that was the reason he was still alive. Another day might have brought him death.

  No, he was alive because of a tavern owner’s determination to make it so.

  By the time Sunday morning rolled around—after hours of sleeping or sitting in a chair staring at a fire and wondering how things had gone so horribly wrong—he was still experiencing considerable discomfort and weariness, but was determined to get on with his life and set matters to rights. Following a bath and a shave, dressed in proper attire for the day, he felt more himself, even if it was a slightly ghostly version of himself, the bruises on his face fading but still visible.

  Slower than he would have liked, he made his way to the breakfast dining room. From her place at the table, his mother sniffed, her nose in the air. “It is unseemly for you to go off on benders and get into brawls as though you were a commoner with no pride about you at all.”

  Unlike most married women who took their breakfast in bed, she had always come down for hers as though she felt a need to serve up an argument with the meal. Her husband had accommodated her. Thorne was not so inclined. “My health is much improved. Thank you for asking.”

  He had a footman assist him with his plate before joining her at the table.

  “That girl made laughingstocks of us,” she said tartly. “I don’t care how ill she was—”

  “She wasn’t ill, Mother. She ran off.”

  Staring at him, she slowly blinked. “Then why in God’s name did you announce she was ill?”

  “To save my pride.” He shoved his plate aside. “To give myself a chance to determine how best to handle this situation.”

  “You handle the matter by finding the girl and marrying her. Otherwise, we shall be made to look even greater fools.”

  He very much doubted he could look any more foolish, but he did need to find Lavinia. Whether he could go through with the marriage was another matter entirely. Although he’d promised his father on his deathbed that he’d honor the contract made with her father. Her dowry included a large estate, Wood’s End—an estate every Duke of Thornley before him had coveted—that edged up against the Thornley ancestral estate, land that would expand Thornley Castle from four thousand acres to six. But the previous earls had proved somewhat lacking when it came to producing girls. Until Lavinia. Their fathers had signed the contract. Her fate and his had been sealed. Perhaps when faced with the moment of exchanging vows, she’d realized she needed more. In hindsight, he couldn’t claim to be unhappy that he was not yet wed. “I don’t know that marriage to her is the answer.”

  “Make it the answer.”

  With a sigh, he shoved back his chair and stood. “I shall handle the matter as I see fit. This afternoon, I shall meet with Collinsworth.”

  “You have a duty—”

  “I am well aware of my responsibilities.” Heading out of the room, he made his way to his office, one of the smaller libraries in the residence. Books adorned the shelves, windows looked out on the garde
ns. At fifteen, sitting behind the desk with the full weight of his rank bearing down on him, he’d been terrified of making a mistake. Now he took his place in the leather chair with the full confidence of a man who was comfortable in his position.

  His butler had laid out the letters from each day’s post with a note before each stack identifying the day of their arrival. The two letters from Thursday were from his estate managers. Friday’s stack was a bit higher. Taking the top letter, he tore the envelope and took out the parchment.

  Dear Duke,

  Your kindness to your bride, putting her happiness above your own pride, will long be remembered. You touched the hearts of ladies everywhere.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Countess of Yawn

  The next was no better.

  Dear Duke,

  I fear all ladies will now feign illness at the church to test our devotion at the altar. You did us other chaps no favors.

  We pray you will delay your next wedding date until after the regatta.

  Not as sincerely as you might like,

  The Duke of Castleberry

  The next three letters ran in a similar vein. The ladies commended him, the lords wished he’d made his bride get on with things. He was on the verge of tossing the whole lot of unopened letters in the rubbish bin when he realized the next one gave no indication on the envelope where it was from. The wax that held the envelope closed was merely a blob, no distinguishing seal. With care he opened it, and read the letter.

  Dear Thorne:

  I hope you will accept my sincerest apology for having left you at the altar, but I did not see that I had a choice. Upon my birth, your father and mine signed a contract sealing our fate without any consideration for what we might want. I thought I could be a good daughter and carry through on my father’s promises and wishes, but being a good daughter has never been my strong suit.