When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  I regret now that I did not speak with you but as my brother assured me nothing I said would change the outcome, I feared our marriage would be off to an awkward start if you knew I had misgivings. I was taught to see to my duty, but as I stood in the vestry, I could not bring myself to condemn us both to a life of unhappiness.

  If you are honest with yourself, I suspect you will find you were quite relieved by my failure to show. While you never treated me unkindly, I cannot help but feel that the only thing to bind us was a piece of property, and you deserve more. For whatever embarrassment I might have brought you, I am sincerely sorry, and I hope eventually you will find it within your heart to forgive me, although I suspect I shall never forgive myself for my cowardice. There are a good many things for which I cannot forgive myself, and in the end, they would have made me an exceedingly bad wife indeed.

  I wish you only the very best. If you have any kind feelings for me at all, know I am well, safe, and sheltered.

  With my warmest regards,

  Lavinia

  “Good God, old boy! What the devil happened to you?” Collinsworth exclaimed, getting up from behind his desk as Thorne limped into the earl’s library in late afternoon.

  He knew he looked a fright, with a bruise about his eye, a scrape on his chin, his left arm in a sling to keep the pressure off his shoulder, and an old walking stick—with thorny vines carved in the wood and a golden lion’s head at the tip—that had once been used by his grandfather providing support for his healing leg. The cane Gillie had given him had been serviceable, but hardly dapper.

  “I got into a bit of bother a few nights back in Whitechapel, looking for your sister.”

  “And had no luck finding her, I’d wager.” Collinsworth wandered over to the sideboard and poured whisky into two glasses. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Thorne lowered himself into a rather plush chair near the window, welcoming the warmth of sunlight. Setting his walking stick aside, he took the glass the earl offered him and savored the flavor.

  “I don’t suppose she’s returned.” Based on her letter, he thought it unlikely, but there was always hope.

  “No, although to be honest, I expected her back by now. I thought perhaps it was simply a lark or she’d gotten cold feet.”

  Collinsworth took a nearby chair, cupped his glass in both hands, and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “I didn’t know precisely how to explain things on the day you were to marry and I don’t know what to say now. She’d asked for a few minutes in the necessary room. I couldn’t very well deny her the opportunity to relieve herself. I didn’t expect her to sneak out the window. I don’t even know how she managed it. I’ve searched for her myself and have hired two men to find her.”

  Her actions spoke of a desperation that worried Thorne. “I’ve had a letter from her, letting me know she is all right.”

  “Yes, she sent us a rather terse note informing us she was safe and not to come looking for her,” Collinsworth said.

  Thorne had a feeling there was a good deal Lavinia had not included in her letter. “Yet, you’ve hired men to find her.”

  “She has an obligation. Our fathers signed a contract. You and I came to terms. She will be found and she will see to her duty.”

  “I’m not going to force the girl into marriage.” He could envision nothing worse than taking to his bed a woman who had no wish to be there. “She told you she had misgivings.”

  “Did she tell you that in her letter? Silly chit. She was going to become a duchess. Any misgivings she had were trite when compared with all she would gain.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t run off the night before.”

  Collinsworth shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “She may have been locked in her bedchamber,” he said quietly.

  Thorne was beginning to question his friendship with Collinsworth. “You imprisoned her?”

  “Mother saw to that. I’d have not approved had I known, but she mentioned it only after Lavinia ran off.”

  “She spoke to your mother about her doubts?”

  “I suppose. There is power, prestige, position that comes with marriage to you. She is five and twenty. On the shelf. The truth is the two of you should have married years ago, before she became accustomed to being unwed and doing as she pleased.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Mother wants this match as much as Father did and is insistent she will marry you.”

  “And if I no longer wish to marry her?” Lavinia had the right of it. Knowing she had doubts regarding him made it incredibly difficult to see a path toward an amicable marriage.

  The earl downed his whisky, settled back, and studied Thorne. “I’ll add the estate of Foxglove to her dowry for the inconvenience her theatrics have caused if you’ll see your way clear to still marrying her once she is found. It will be less mortifying for all concerned if the marriage goes forward. You announced she was ill. Do you really want to now announce to the world that your bride abandoned you?”

  “I’m thinking it might be preferable to marrying a woman who abandoned me.”

  “Let’s not be rash. She had no reason not to marry you. She has a tendency to be flighty and overdramatic.”

  He’d never noticed either of those particular traits in her. As a matter of fact, he’d always found her to be levelheaded, and had thought she’d manage his household with a great deal of aplomb.

  “Besides, it could just be that she had doubts because your courting of her was lacking.”

  He hated to admit that Collinsworth might have the right of it. He’d shown her attention, but in retrospect he’d been rather lazy in his pursuit of her because pursuit had not been required. The marriage had been arranged, and aware of her age, he’d realized he might be bringing her mortification by not taking her to wife as soon as he might have. He needed to speak with her, to understand fully what had sent her fleeing. “Why Whitechapel?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Collinsworth said.

  “Who does she know there?”

  The earl appeared completely flummoxed. “As far as I know, she’s never visited that area of London. It’s not as though there are any shops worth her while there.” He bent forward. “Look, old chap, I will see her found. I will see she understands her duty. She’s a spinster, well on her way to becoming an old maid. She should be groveling at your feet.”

  Only Thorne didn’t want a woman who groveled, and an image of a woman who would never grovel flashed through his mind. “Let’s see what she has to say for herself once we find her. Since I announced only that the marriage was postponed, perhaps both our prides can be salvaged.”

  “I promised Father I would see her well married. She’s gone and made a mess of things.”

  And he’d promised his father he would see Wood’s End annexed onto the Thornley Castle estate, bring only honor and no scandal to his title, and marry an upstanding noblewoman to carry on the untainted bloodline. He’d promised to make him proud. It was quite possible that promises made would prove to be the ruin of them all.

  Chapter 7

  She knew the moment Thorne strode through the door and into the tavern. It was as though every particle of air had become charged with his power, his confidence.

  Mortified to admit it, since the carriage had carried him away two nights earlier, she’d imagined this moment, wished for it, yearned for his return. She’d missed him, which was bloody ridiculous. He was nothing to her. More importantly, she was nothing to him.

  Now that he was here, she rather wished he wasn’t. The entire establishment had gone deathly quiet, as though each person knew someone significant had entered, something momentous was on the verge of taking place. Perhaps it was the way his gaze had latched onto hers, held her captive. Or the way he stood there, just waiting for God knew what, decked out in well-tailored clothing that fit him to perfection. A flawlessly knotted white cravat, a muted gray brocade waistcoat, a dark blue coat, tanned trousers, brown gloves. He’d removed his hat to reveal hair
tamed into a style she doubted would allow the strands to wrap around her fingers. Very recently, he’d taken a razor to his jaw. And he carried a walking stick, much nicer than the one she’d given him.

  He was so incredibly beautiful that it fairly hurt her eyes to gaze on him.

  Even if she wanted, she’d have not been able to look away. Instead, she feasted on the sight of him as though he were a gift from the gods or a god himself. In spite of all her wishing for his return, she hadn’t truly expected he would.

  Then he began striding across the tavern, a slight limp not distracting from his bearing in the least, working his way between the tables and drunkards with such confidence and purpose some men simply leaped out of his way as though afraid he’d mow them down. Although it was impossible, it seemed the place got even quieter, the customers even more still.

  Her brother Finn, leaning negligently against the bar waiting for her to hand over the pint she’d poured for him, was alert, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see the tension radiating off him as though he sensed trouble might be afoot. Any other night, any other moment, she would have reassured him, told him to relax, but she couldn’t find the wherewithal to speak. She was mesmerized like some silly chit who had dreams of being romanced, courted, loved, and who believed the only man capable of fulfilling those fantasies had entered her life.

  Then he was standing before her, and for all her imaginings of this moment—all the times in her mind that she’d been calm, witty, and oh so very clever—the actual reality hit her as a bit disappointing when she heard herself ask, “What are you doing here?”

  Both corners of that glorious mouth that had haunted her sleep hitched up. Slowly, ever so slowly he reached into a pocket inside his jacket, withdrew gold-rimmed spectacles, and perched them on that sharp aquiline nose of his. How could he suddenly appear even more masculine than before? “I wanted a better look at you.”

  That look no doubt included a swath of red racing up her neck, over her cheeks, and into her hairline. She wasn’t one for blushing, but if the heat swarming through her was any indication, she was doing so now with unerring success.

  “Why the bloody hell would you want that and when did you get a not-so-good look at her before?” Finn asked, with stony calm. Anyone who knew him recognized that tone usually preceded the swing of a fist.

  Thorne merely arched a brow, and gave him a once-over as though her brother were nothing, of no more consequence than a fly. “What’s it to you?”

  Oh, yes, if four men hadn’t jumped him, he’d have not been taken down. One or two, possibly three, would have met their match. The fourth had sealed his fate.

  Breaking free of the unconscionable spell under which she’d fallen, she set the pewter tankard on the bar. “He’s my brother. It’s all right, Finn. Our paths crossed a few nights ago. Head off to enjoy your brew.”

  “Not until I know who this bloke is.”

  “Finn—”

  “Antony Coventry, Duke of Thornley.”

  Bloody hell. The curse slipped out low, under her breath, but still he heard it. Those Guinness eyes narrowed. Of course he was a duke. And all those ridiculous thoughts she’d had of him sweeping her off her feet were even more ludicrous. She knew all about the nobility, their ranks, how they were to be addressed, because Mick had been involved with a duke’s widow in his youth, and in exchange for his “services” she taught him a good deal about how the upper class set themselves apart from the riffraff, and Mick had shared his knowledge with her and their brothers. They’d always all been in it together—bettering themselves and doing what was needed to rise above their station—sharing anything they learned with each other. So she was well aware that a nobleman wasn’t going to fall for the likes of her, a tavern owner raised in the streets who used one knife, one fork, and one spoon when she ate. He was here merely to express his appreciation. If he offered her money, she was going to punch him in his uninjured shoulder.

  Finn seemed unimpressed, but then he had no love for the nobility and wasn’t above displaying his disdain.

  “Off with you, Finn,” she ordered.

  “Does he have anything to do with you not working for a few days?”

  She slapped his upper arm, always surprised by the firm muscle that greeted her. He was no slouch, her brother. “None of your business.” Then she looked past him to the gaping horde. “You lot! Quit your staring and get back to your drinking before I toss you all out on your ears.” She returned her glare to her brother. “Same applies to you. Get on. Beast is over there waiting on you.”

  With deliberate calm, he picked up his tankard and lifted it toward the duke. “I’ll be watching.”

  He strode off to join Beast at a back table. She wasn’t surprised her other brother had stayed put. He wasn’t one to interfere without an invite to do so, unless he determined the situation was such that an invitation couldn’t be issued. As a rule, he was more thoughtful, slower to respond than the others, but when he did react, he poured every bit of himself into his actions.

  “Pleasant fellow.”

  She gave her attention back to Thorne. Thinking of him as such seemed too informal now that she knew Graves had been correct and this man’s moniker was a shortened version of his title. “He has his moments. I hadn’t expected to see you again.”

  “I owe you, although I wasn’t quite sure how much.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket. “I was thinking—”

  “You don’t pay a good Samaritan.”

  “I want to show my appreciation.”

  “Then give it to a foundling home.”

  He studied her for a long moment that seemed to stretch into next week. “I’ve insulted you.”

  “Yes.”

  “That was not my intent.”

  “Then when you remove your hand from your pocket, be sure it’s empty.”

  He gave a slight nod. “You’re a stubborn wench.”

  “With a fairly powerful right-handed punch when I need one.”

  Grinning, he removed his gloved hand from inside his jacket. She was glad he’d heeded her warning, as she’d have not enjoyed pummeling him. “What can I pour you?”

  “Whisky.”

  Not bothering to ask if he wanted the expensive stuff, she simply poured it and set it before him. “On the house.”

  “Join me.”

  She did wish those two little words didn’t make her heart go all aflutter as though he were implying something more personal, something that might result in her losing her spot in heaven. “I have a policy of not drinking with customers. No good ever comes from blurring the lines.” She did hope he understood that lines between them couldn’t be blurred, that she was a mermaid and he was a blasted unicorn.

  “If it’s on the house, I’m not paying for it, so I’m not a customer. I’d like to have a word. Perhaps at that corner table where there aren’t so many people jostling about.”

  She was fairly certain he wasn’t accustomed to being denied anything he’d like to have—even a conversation. If she were smart, she’d continue to deny him what he wanted, make her position clear: they were not and never would be friends. She might have embraced a bit of whimsy when naming her tavern, but she understood the realities of the world, that there were those born into privilege while the majority of people were simply born and had to shape their own world. If she did deem to join him, she’d have to ensure she didn’t make a fool of herself. She signaled to Jolly Roger that she was taking a break, poured herself only a bit of whisky, and led the bloody duke to the table he’d indicated, taking a chair before he had time to pull one out for her—if he even would have. Once he was seated, she lifted her glass. “To your good health.”

  She took a sip, watched him do the same, fought not to squirm as he studied her over the rim of his glass, the spectacles making his gaze seem more intense, his features more distinguished. Why did he have to be so frightfully gorgeous? She’d spent her entire life avoiding being drawn to men, and
this one was melting her resistance without even trying. He was dangerous because all these unwelcomed feelings he stirred within her had her comprehending why women would lift their skirts. “You wanted a word,” she finally said impatiently, anxious to get back to the bar where there was a wooden barrier between them.

  “You’re not happy I’m a duke.”

  So much for her ability to keep her feelings from being on display. “Makes no difference to me.”

  Leaning back, he tapped a finger on the table. “You have me at a disadvantage, as I don’t know your full name.”

  “I don’t see that it matters.”

  “I can make inquiries. Could probably ask that gent two tables over.”

  She sighed, because the less they knew about each other, the easier it would be to keep her distance. “Gillian Trewlove.”

  “Trewlove.” He repeated the name as though it were a tasty morsel. “You’re not related to Mick Trewlove, are you?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  He squinted, seemed to be racking his brain. “I don’t recall seeing you at his wedding. Did you not attend?”

  She laughed lightly. “As though you’d have noticed me if I had.”

  “Oh, I’d have noticed you.”

  Although the inside of the tavern was more shadowy than he’d have liked, with his spectacles firmly in place, he could see her more clearly, more sharply than ever. Her hair reminded him of the burnished autumn leaves at Thornley Castle. He’d always fancied walking or riding through the forest when the cooler air arrived and the trees brought forth their fall colors. He imagined the pleasure of sinking his hands into the luxurious tresses cascading about her shoulders—no, he’d only be able to indulge his fingers by burying them in the thick short strands. He’d take great satisfaction from that, however.

  As much pleasure as he took from simply gazing on her. She’d had freckles as a child. They’d left behind faint markings that made her features all the more interesting, gave them character. She wasn’t polished alabaster. She was life, adventure, daring. He doubted she’d ever worn a hat, but preferred to let the sun have its way with her.