When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  “With your gent?”

  “He’s not my gent.”

  He closed the till, turned, leaned against the counter, and crossed his beefy arms over his broad chest. “You need to be sure he knows that. I seen the way he looked at you.”

  “He’s spoken for.”

  “He married then?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Many a man changes his mind before he gets to the altar.”

  This one obviously wasn’t. He’d been to the altar, been stood up, and still wanted to find the woman. Clearly he saw her as his future. She sighed once more. “He can change his mind all he likes. I have no interest in finding myself saddled with a man. Open the door. Let’s get to serving.”

  “Takes only one, Gillie.” He started lumbering toward the entrance.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Takes only one, if he’s the right one, to make you change your mind.”

  “I’ll be thirty come December.”

  “And I just turned forty-three, but here I am as smitten as a schoolboy.”

  “With whom?”

  He grinned broadly. “Figure it out.”

  He opened the door and the throng rushed in, giving her no time to figure anything out, least of all the reason she’d really said yes to assisting a duke.

  “So what is she like?”

  Thorne glanced over at the woman striding beside him along the crowded street, her level gaze as questioning as her voice. He’d never before spoken to a woman without having to lower his eyes. He liked that he could look directly into hers. He also liked that he didn’t have to shorten his stride to accommodate her gait. Her long legs easily kept pace with his, or they would if his steps weren’t hampered by a slight limp. Even with the walking stick, his thigh and backside periodically protested his movements.

  The hat she wore bore no frills whatsoever. No ribbons, no flowers, no bows. It reminded him of something a farmer might wear as he plowed his fields. He supposed she didn’t have enough hair to hold a hatpin, so keeping a more fashionable lady’s hat in place would be a challenge since she strode briskly more than ambled. Men doffed their hats to her. Women smiled at her, greeted her by name as they passed. Children ran up to her, hugged her legs, received a wooden token from her in return for the gesture, and darted away.

  It amused him to observe her, comfortable and relaxed in these environs that made him expect to have his pockets fleeced at any moment. “I told you. Short of stature, fair.”

  She scowled at him. “No. What is she like? Not, what does she look like. What does she enjoy doing? What are her hobbies? When she wants time to herself, what does she do? How does she fill her day?”

  He was embarrassed to admit he hadn’t a clue. “She makes morning calls naturally.” All ladies did. “Goes to the dressmaker. Shops. Engages in charitable works.”

  “Such as?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  She easily sidestepped a rotund man who didn’t seem willing to give up his share of the path. Her bared hand skimmed across his gloved one, and he cursed the supple leather that formed a barrier between their skins.

  “If she works with orphans, we could visit orphanages or foundling homes. If she does what she can for beggars, we could make inquiries at a shelter or mission. Perhaps someone there saw her.”

  How was it that he’d known Lavinia for years and yet knew so little about her? She was a proper lady with a sterling pedigree. He had a vague understanding of how ladies spent their day, but knew none of the details when it came to the woman he’d intended to marry. They spoke of books and gardens and weather. Had he truly intended to spend the remainder of his life talking books, gardens, and weather?

  “We often took a carriage ride through the park, but other than that, I’m ashamed to admit I’m not familiar with the specifics regarding how she spent her day.” He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or disgusted by his lack of knowledge.

  “Then we have a challenge before us,” she said lightly as though the matter was of no consequence, but he suspected she’d have not inquired if that were the case. “Do you know if she had any funds on her?”

  “Her brother would have given her an allowance. If she saved it perhaps.” He hoped she had an abundance of money. He didn’t want to think of her sitting against a wall or curled on a stoop, with vacant eyes staring out at nothing, like numerous people they’d passed. He didn’t want to consider her being hungry or cold or frightened, not knowing what awaited her. He shook his head to throw off the morose thoughts. “I don’t know if she’d been planning to run away all along or if it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  She had been increasingly quiet of late. Had she begun to have doubts regarding marriage to him? Lady Aslyn had been betrothed to the Earl of Kipwick before she’d tossed him aside in favor of Mick Trewlove. Lavinia had been unusually silent and reserved at Lady Aslyn’s wedding, almost melancholy. Had Lady Aslyn’s change of heart planted seeds of doubt for Lavinia?

  “Spur-of-the-moment,” Gillie suddenly announced.

  He nearly laughed. “How can you sound so certain?”

  “You seem the reasonable sort. Why wouldn’t she simply tell you she had reservations, had changed her mind?”

  “Perhaps she feared I’d attempt to convince her otherwise.”

  “Would you have not let her go?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. I’d made a vow . . .” And a deathbed vow was not to be taken lightly. Besides Lavinia was not a flighty debutante. She was of an age when she should have known her own mind, should have understood the solemnity of accepting his offer.

  “I suppose there’s some comfort in knowing you’re a man who stands by his vows. But sometimes even the most well-intended oaths are best not kept.”

  He wondered if she’d ever made any she’d not kept.

  Stopping beside a small lad sitting against a lamppost, she bent down and held out one of her wooden disks. The boy simply stared at it. She said something Thorne couldn’t hear. Then with a wide grin, the imp snatched it from her fingers and tore off down the street. When she straightened, he asked, “What are those?”

  Seemingly embarrassed by his question, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt, causing the clatter of other tokens, and carried on. “They can be swapped for a bowl of soup at the back door of the tavern.”

  She’d handed them out to men, women, and children. “How do you know who is in need?”

  She shrugged. “It’s the eyes. The eyes tell you when someone is hungry.”

  So caught up in his own worries, he hadn’t been paying attention, while this woman was incredibly aware of her surroundings, seemed to notice everything. “Did you go hungry as a child?”

  “More times than I could count.”

  He couldn’t imagine it. His belly had always been full, more than full actually. “How do you know people aren’t taking advantage of your generosity?”

  Stopping, she met his gaze head-on. “If you weren’t in need, would you take charity?”

  He gave a long slow nod of understanding. It had bothered him when she’d refused to take payment for tending to him after he’d been attacked. He didn’t much like being in debt. He owed her for her assistance today as well. It would no doubt take a bit of creativity to ensure he repaid her properly, a payment that might provide him with an excuse to spend more time with her. “No, I suppose not.”

  “There you are then,” she stated briskly. “Let’s inquire here.”

  Without waiting for him, she marched up a path, climbed three steps—steps she might have scrubbed as a child—and knocked smartly. She was without a doubt the most independent woman he’d ever known. She didn’t require his arm for support or his permission for action.

  The door opened, and a hunched-over woman gave him an excruciatingly slow perusal before turning her attention to Gillie.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bard.”

  “Gillie.”

  Did th
e tavern owner know everyone? Did they all know her?

  “Any new lodgers of late?”

  “Me rooms have been filled for a couple of months now. No one new.”

  “And in your common room?”

  The old woman shifted her feet as though she’d been caught in a lie. “They comes ’n’ goes. ’Specially them what sleeps on the ropes.”

  He was still trying to process what she was referring to when Gillie turned to him. “Did you bring the miniature?”

  “Ah, yes.” Reaching into his pocket, he removed the tiny portrait of Lavinia that she’d given him a few weeks after their betrothal. He’d assumed she’d been marking her commitment to him.

  His search partner took it and gave it a passing glance, before holding it near Mrs. Bard’s nose. “Has she slept here?”

  Narrowing her eyes, the older woman leaned nearer and shook her head. “Ain’t seen ’er.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  One eye narrowing even further, she glared at him. “Ye questioning me eyes or me tongue?”

  “Neither,” Gillie said quickly as she handed the portrait back to him. “He’s simply striving to find her.”

  “Run off from ye, did she? Ye beat ’er?”

  “What? No! Of course not. Don’t be ludicrous.”

  “Oh, a man of big fancy words. ’E ain’t your sort, Gillie. Too much of the posh in ’im.”

  “Will you let me know if you see her?” Gillie asked.

  “I might.”

  “There’s a crown in it for you, and your first pint at the Mermaid is on me.”

  She gave a sly smile and a quick nod. “Ye’ve got me devotion now.”

  “And . . .” Gillie handed her several of the wooden tokens. “For those sleeping on the ropes tonight.”

  She tucked them into the pocket on her stained apron. “If there was more like ye in this world, Gillie, it’d be a better world.”

  “There are plenty like me, Mrs. Bard. You have a good day.” She turned on her heel and headed back toward the street.

  He made a move to follow.

  “Ye ’urt ’er, people ’round ’ere will kill ye.”

  He glanced back at Mrs. Bard. “I’ve no plans to hurt her.”

  “Just cuz ye don’t plan it don’t mean it won’t ’appen.” She shut the door, leaving him feeling the worst sort of scoundrel because he did enjoy Gillie’s company, but now worried he was taking advantage of Lavinia’s disappearance to use it as an excuse so he had a viable reason for limping along beside Gillie as she knocked on one lodging house door after another. He had to admire the manner in which she could speak to people without offending them. It seemed if he opened his mouth, they took an immediate dislike to him. He didn’t know some of the terms she used. He certainly didn’t know these people by name.

  They’d just left their sixth house when she made an abrupt turn down an alleyway and unerringly approached what looked to be a makeshift shelter, some sort of tarp or cloth supported by thin sticks. Debris littered the ground, and he worked to avoid stepping in anything that might require he burn his boots. She crouched in front of what appeared to be an opening. In spite of his leg protesting, he joined her and nearly recoiled from the foul stench of human waste and rotting carcass cast off by the bearded, wild-haired, nearly toothless shriveled man huddled within the enclosure.

  “Hello, Petey.” She greeted him as though he were a favorite relation. “I was wondering if you’ve taken in any timepieces of late.”

  He was eyeing Thorne, taking his measure, rather than looking at her. “I might ’ave. Wot’s it to ye?”

  Thorne’s heart jumped within his chest. He was searching for Lavinia, but if he could also regain his timepiece—

  “Five quid if you still have the one I’m looking for.”

  The scruffy man reached beneath his backside, pulled out a pouch, and dumped three watches onto the dirty rags in front of him and then waved his hand over them as though presenting a gift. Thorne didn’t have to examine them to know the silver pieces were not the gold one for which he was searching. “Do you have a gold one?”

  He shook his head, but looked guilty doing it.

  “Have you had a gold one?” Gillie asked.

  “Not recently.”

  Twisting around on the balls of her feet, she turned to Thorne. “Did it have anything unusual on it?”

  “A crest that had a vine of roses circling a lion with a thorn in its paw.”

  Her grin made him want to reach out, cup her chin, and stroke his thumb over those lips. “A thorny vine, I suppose, and a thorn in the paw for Thornley.”

  “I fear my ancestors were not the most imaginative.”

  She gave her attention back to the old man. “Anything like that, Petey?”

  “Nah. I don’t git brung the good stuff.”

  “If you hear of it making the rounds, let me know. I’ll see it worth your while.” Then she took hold of that grimy hand—willingly placed her hand on it—turned it up, put two wooden tokens into it, and folded his fingers around her gift. “You take care now.”

  “You too, Gil.”

  Straightening, she began walking away. He joined her. “I take it he’s a fence.”

  She glanced over at him. “He is.”

  “Not a very successful one to live like that.”

  “He lived much better before his wife and son died a few years back. Cholera. Now he’s simply sad.”

  He remembered how he’d wanted to close himself off from the world after his siblings perished and then later when his father passed, but in both instances his responsibilities prevented his withdrawal.

  “You’re in pain,” she said sympathetically. “I hadn’t given much thought to the fact you’re still recovering.”

  He didn’t like admitting that his leg was fairly killing him. “I’m fine.”

  “Your limp has worsened. I could do with a bit of a rest myself. There’s a coffee house around the corner.”

  “I say we push on.”

  “You can push on if you like. I’m going to have some coffee.”

  “You are well aware I haven’t a clue regarding who I should approach.”

  That smile again, only this time there was a hint of triumph in it. “Then I suppose you’d best join me.”

  She was one of the few ladies in attendance, not that she seemed bothered by it. A couple of the women, standing about, were giving him the eye and every now and then a sultry smile. He watched as one led a gent up the stairs. It was not uncommon for a coffee house to also serve as a brothel, letting rooms by the hour. He wondered if Gillie was aware of that. He suspected she was. She seemed to be intimately familiar with all aspects of this area of London.

  He wondered if she’d ever taken a man—other than a wounded one—to her rooms. He doubted it. She wasn’t the flirtatious sort, and yet something about her was decidedly coquettish. Perhaps because she didn’t appear to be aware of her appeal. Even downplaying it with her plain garb and her short hair couldn’t diminish it. She was like the sun, hiding behind clouds, but the brilliance of her still shone through.

  Lifting the heavy mug, she placed it just below her slender nose and inhaled the aroma. Her eyes closed and her expression of bliss had his lower body tightening painfully. He’d like to be the one responsible for causing the soft sigh that escaped through her slightly parted lips just before she took a sip of the dark brew.

  With an easy smile, she opened her eyes. “I love coffee.”

  “I’d have not guessed.” Which was a lie, as it was obvious she enjoyed the flavor. “What did you mean when you asked Mrs. Bard about the people sleeping on the ropes?”

  She seemed surprised by his question. “Not everyone has the luxury of a bed. She has a room where she has lined up pallets. If people haven’t the means to afford one, they can sleep on a bench for fewer coins. There’s a rope strung the length of it about chest high so they can put their arms over it in order to not tumble off the be
nch once they fall asleep.”

  He was rather appalled by the notion. Many lords and ladies were involved in charitable works, and while he had made numerous donations to their causes he was unfamiliar with this practice. “Sounds terribly uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  His gut tightened at the thought of her hanging over a rope. “Have you slept in such a manner?”

  “When I was fifteen, and only as a lark to see what it was like. My mum always provided me with a bed before I could afford one of my own.”

  “Your voice always softens when you mention her.”

  Lifting a shoulder, she took another sip of coffee, looking at him over the rim of her cup. It was an odd thing that he couldn’t remember Lavinia ever studying him and had no memory of ever scrutinizing her either. But then he’d known her for ages, because their fathers had ensured they met and understood they were destined to wed. “I have to admit to being surprised you know the area and people, so well.”

  Blinking, she set down her mug. “I thought that was the reason you asked for my help.”

  “Well, yes, but still I underestimated your knowledge. I assume you grew up here.”

  “Not in Whitechapel specifically, but nearby. I’ve been here since I was nineteen, ever since I opened my tavern.”

  “What’s that then? A half dozen years?”

  She laughed, a sound that caused gents to turn their heads, and he suspected he was the envy of some, to be sitting at a table by the window with her. “A little over a decade.”

  Which made her a mature woman, not an innocent, untried lass. Surely a woman who’d had lovers. Or at least at some time a husband. Perhaps she was a widow. He didn’t like the thought of her with another man, sipping coffee, sharing whisky. Something akin to jealousy rushed through him at the thought of another man lying in her bed, opening his eyes to find her tending to him. “Have you never married?”

  “Nary once.”

  Most women would be a bit embarrassed by the fact, but she seemed to view it as a badge of honor. “Why ever not?”

  “I’m not the sort men love, and I won’t marry without love. I’m content with what I have.”