The Truth About Love and Dukes

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  With that, Irene stepped back and shut the door in his face, perfectly certain she’d done the right thing, even as she burst into tears and her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Chapter 20

  The gallery at Ravenwood was a long, wide corridor. One side, lined by a balustrade of intricately carved oak, overlooked the main entrance hall, which was the original castle keep. Along the opposite side, hundreds of images lined the wall, portraits painted in oils and framed in gilt-covered wood. Henry walked along the gallery, passing the faces of the previous Dukes of Torquil, along with their wives and children, and though he glanced at them as he passed, he did not stop until he came to one image in particular.

  The face that stared back at him looked like his own—the same black hair, the same gray eyes, the same square jaw. He began to fear that the similarities did not end with looks.

  You break my heart with your rigid and uncompromising view of the world.

  He thought of his boyhood, and the terror that would strike his heart any time he did something against the rules and had to face his father.

  The rules. It always came back to that. His whole life was lived by rules and codes of conduct. Of honor. And duty.

  Of all the duties you may hold, surely the greatest one is—must be—to show others, by example, what is right.

  But how did he know what was right? Ever since Irene’s stinging set-down, he had been pondering that question. On the train journey to Hampshire and during the three days since, he had thought of little else. Haunted by self-doubt, he’d wandered the woods of his ancestral home, toured the farms and the cottages, walked the house and the gardens, trying to regain amid these touchstones his sense of right and wrong, a renewing of his purpose, and the meaning of his place in the world. He’d never had cause to doubt or even consider these things until a fiery beauty with radical views had come along, questioning everything he thought he knew, and pressing him for answers that could not be found anywhere in his previous experience. Irene shook the very foundations of his existence.

  Now, he was standing in front of the previous duke, hoping that in his father’s face, he would find answers, but instead, he felt more than ever before the burdens of his position.

  Mama was to marry Foscarelli tomorrow, and when she did, the lives of all the family would be forever changed. He could not prevent that. The only thing he could do now was set the best course for the future of his family. But what was that course? Only a few days ago, it had seemed self-evident, but now it was lost in a sea of conflicting interests.

  Did it ever occur to you that as head of the family, your own best action might be to support your mother and attempt to persuade the other members of your family to do the same? She is your mother, Henry. She needs you, she needs your support, but you withhold it, and for what?

  For rules, of course. To preserve the way things ought to be. For tradition and duty. But not, in this case, for what was right. Irene’s words had stung like a whip, but he’d wholeheartedly deserved the lashing. For now, looking into his father’s implacable face, he knew his decision had been his father’s, not his own, and it had been the wrong one. He was not his father, and he did not want to be.

  He looked at the portrait beside his father’s, and the sight of Mama’s beloved face gave him all the more reason to berate himself. His mother had not loved his father. She had tried, but Papa, as everyone in their family was well aware, had been a difficult man to love. Henry had always known his parents had married for suitability and duty, but he had never dwelled on it, for in his world, love was a secondary consideration in marriage, and if it happened, it was a happy accident. Mama had done her duty; she had married the suitable man, provided him with the required heir and four other children besides, but she had never been allowed to love him.

  Now, she had her first and perhaps only chance to marry for love, and his way of dealing with that fact had been his father’s way—to block her at every turn. He looked again at the stern-faced image beside his mother’s, and he feared he was more like the man before him than he’d ever wanted to believe. I want to love you, Henry. And you make it impossible.

  Irene’s words echoing through his mind forced him to think of Elena, for a decade ago, his wife could have said those very same words to him. As a youth of nineteen, he’d been inflamed by passion for a sweet and innocent girl. He had married her, he had bedded her, but he had never given her his heart. Instead, he had hidden her away, a shameful secret to be kept from the world, and passion had not transmuted into love; instead, it had crumbled into dust. He had always blamed the failure of his marriage on the fact that he had married out of his class, but now he knew that was not his true sin at all.

  Do you have a heart? Forgive me for being skeptical, but I have seen little evidence of that particular organ.

  Henry lowered his head into his hand. He had a heart. He knew that because right now it ached in his chest like an open wound. But of course Irene had never seen it. How could she, when he took such pains to keep it hidden, to keep it in his own hands and under his own control?

  He loved Irene. He had been in love with her almost from the very beginning—falling, he suspected, just about the moment she’d called him a lily of the field and denounced him and everything he stood for. And ever since, he’d been doing all he could to bring her closer, maneuvering her into his world and even into his very house just to be near her, but he hadn’t deemed what he felt to be love. No, in his own mind, he’d called it lust, and by doing that, he’d been able to convince himself that giving his heart would not be required.

  Footsteps sounded at the end of the gallery, and he lifted his head, turning as Angela came down the stairs. She caught sight of him and paused on the landing, frowning. “Henry? What are you doing over there?”

  “Thinking about my life, my duty, and what it all means.”

  She frowned, understandably puzzled by such an enigmatic answer, and started down the gallery toward him. “What’s brought this about?” she asked as she halted beside him. “Some ducal crisis?”

  “You could say that.”

  She turned toward the painting all the wall. “And you’re looking to Papa’s portrait for guidance?”

  “In a way, though not perhaps in the way he might have hoped. I am thinking of the man that I am, and what of me I will be passing on to the next generation.”

  She gasped, turning to look at him, her gray eyes filled with delight. “Henry! Who is she?”

  “Women,” he groaned. “You jump from an innocuous statement to a foregone conclusion in the space of a heartbeat.”

  “It’s Miss Deverill, isn’t it? Oh, I hope so, for I do like her.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Sarah does, too. Carlotta doesn’t,” she added, laughing. “A fact which makes me like her ever more. And if you love her, then, well, of course, I shall adore her.”

  She gave him an inquiring glance, but he refused to rise to the bait. “All my life,” he muttered, “I’ve prided myself on my circumspection and discretion. I am humbled at every turn these days, it seems.”

  “Well, you’ve hardly made a secret of your interest.”

  Fear clutched at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You let her steer the ship, Henry! Good God, I saw that, and I about fell over the side, I was so shocked. When’s the wedding?”

  “You go too fast, Angie. There is no wedding.”

  “Oh.” For a moment, she looked thoroughly let down, then she brightened. “You’re right. I go too fast. You have only known her a few weeks. But she is from a respectable family, on her mother’s side anyway, though she is a bit more . . . independent than our lot’s used to.”

  “That’s one way of putting it, yes,” he said with a sigh.

  “But she’s such fun. She makes the talk at dinner much more interesting. Well, she does,” she added, laughing as he laughed. “It’s usually so boring—talk of the season and the latest dresses, and
such, while she talks about jobs and what it’s like to work—things that matter. It’s fascinating.”

  “Is it? Angie,” he added before she could respond, “what do you want for your life?”

  “What?” Her voice held lively astonishment. “What do you mean?”

  “For your life. What do you want?” He waved a hand to their surroundings. “Do you want all this? To be married and have a husband from the right sort of family and your portrait on the gallery wall?”

  She frowned, looking bewildered. “I suppose. I mean, what else is there?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a question, I think, that you should ask yourself, from time to time, and consider seriously. Promise me you’ll do that.”

  She still looked puzzled, but she nodded. “All right.”

  “Don’t just choose your course because it’s the easy one, or the obvious one. Don’t . . .” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, appreciating that loosening the reins of his control over those so dear to him was a damned difficult thing to do. “Don’t just choose what I would want for you, or what our friends might think is right. And whatever you choose, you may be sure I’m behind you, and I support you. I will always support you.”

  “Thank you, but . . .” She paused, giving him a doubtful look. “Are you . . . are you afraid I’m falling in love with an unsuitable man, or something?”

  “No,” he said with a laugh, and then a thought struck him, his laughter faded, and he frowned at her. “You’re not, are you?”

  “No, although if I were, I should hardly tell you. You’d hit the ceiling.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. All right, maybe I would,” he amended as she gave him a skeptical look. “But I would always want you to be happy. You and your sister, and every other member of our family.” He paused, then added, “Including Mama.”

  Angela sighed and jerked her chin, looking away. “She seems to care very deeply for that man, although I don’t know why she has to marry him.” She paused, then burst out, “It’s a hard thing to swallow!”

  “I know. But it is her decision, and we’ll not sway her from it. All we can do now is accept it.” He paused, considering the ramifications of what he was about to do, then he took a deep breath and reached for his sister’s hand. “That’s why,” he said, “I’m going back to London. I’ll take the evening train.”

  “London?”

  “Yes. I’m going to the wedding tomorrow.”

  “But why?” she cried, pulling her hand from his. “You can’t possibly approve!”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter if I approve.”

  “By going, you indicate that you do. That is what everyone will think.”

  “I realize that.” He glanced at his father’s portrait, Irene’s words in his ears. “But I don’t ever want to become so wedded to what people think that I fail to do what is right.”

  “That won’t happen, Henry,” she said. “You always do what’s right.”

  “Do I?” He thought of Elena, and of Irene, and of his heart, and he grimaced. “Not always.”

  “Yes, you do,” she insisted. “Although, that’s sometimes only after you’ve tried everything else.”

  He smiled a little. “Yes,” he agreed. “Perhaps that’s true.”

  He sobered. “And in this case, I feel that the right thing for me to do is to stand by Mama.”

  “But only a few weeks ago, you were adamantly opposed to the marriage.”

  “I am still not convinced it is the right thing, but that does not matter, for it is not my decision to make. I am going to the wedding not because I approve, but because I must stand by Mama, as I would stand by any member of our family who needs my support.”

  “Don’t Sarah and I need your support, too?”

  “Yes, and afterward, I will do all I can to mitigate any damage Mama’s wedding or my attendance there may cause you and your sister.”

  “But you won’t stay away?” Her face crumpled when he shook his head, tearing at his heart. “You know my ability to find a husband shall now be utterly out the window?”

  “It’s not quite as dire as that,” he said gently. “You’re a beautiful girl from an influential family, and as I said, I’ll do what I can for you.”

  “The only thing you can really do is raise the dowry.”

  “Which I will not do,” he said. “That would only attract fortune-hunters.”

  She tossed her head. “A fact that hardly matters, since our own Mama is marrying one. An act that I cannot help but feel is very selfish of her.”

  “Perhaps . . .” He paused, looking at the portrait of his mother’s face, forcing himself to consider as objectively as he could what marriage to his father had been like for her. “Perhaps after twenty years in a loveless marriage,” he said gently, “Mama has earned the right to be selfish, at least about whom to marry. She loves Foscarelli, and love is important, though our sort always try to pretend it isn’t.”

  “Mama says that, too. She says with her marriage, I will be free to find a man who truly loves me for myself and not for my position. Do you think that’s true?”

  “Yes, I do. Though I suspect that’s not much comfort to you just now. I’m sorry.”

  “People will ridicule us, laugh at us.”

  “Yes. But we have each other, and we shall have to brave that storm together. As head of the family, it is my job to guide the ship through that storm, but it would mean a great deal to me if I knew I could count on my crew.”

  She grimaced. “By that, I suppose you mean you want all of us to go to the wedding together as a show of solidarity.”

  “You must do as your conscience dictates, Angie. I shan’t tell you what to do.”

  “Heavens,” she murmured, making a face. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  He smiled at that, but he didn’t reply. He simply waited, watching her, and after a moment, she capitulated.

  “Oh, I suppose you’re right to advise that we stand as a family. Especially since we’ll be persona non grata anyway. I’ll go down to London with you, and I’ll try to persuade Sarah to come as well. You’ll have to work on David and Jamie, if you want them to come. As for Carlotta, I’ll talk to her, too, thought I don’t know how much good it will do.”

  “You’re a brick, Angie.”

  “And since we shall be in London, anyway . . .” She paused and gave him a sidelong glance. “Perhaps you should call on Miss Deverill? But,” she added as he sighed, “whatever you do, you mustn’t rush things. I know that’s hard for you, for you are a bit impatient sometimes. But you barely know her. Best to wait a bit, until you’re sure, before you go proposing, or anything like that.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that advice. The deed is done.” He grimaced, turning away before she could see his pain in his face. “She refused me, Angie.”

  “What? No!”

  He couldn’t help laughing a little. “Your surprise is gratifying, dear sister.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t be surprised? You’re the greatest catch in England!”

  “Am I?” His amusement faded, and he stared at the wall of dukes and duchesses before them. “I don’t feel like such a prize.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Angela wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a comforting hug. “Did she say why she refused you? Does she not love you? Is that it?”

  “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, you are asking her to take on an enormous job, and she may not feel she’s up to it. Or that she’s ready. Wait a bit, and then try your suit again. You’re not giving up after one refusal, surely?”

  Instead of answering, he gestured to the face before them on the wall. “Do you remember Papa?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think . . . am I like him?”

  “You look like him. So do I, for that matter.”

  “But in character, am I like him?”

  If he’d hoped for an immediate and decisive negation of tha
t possibility, he was disappointed. Instead, his sister turned toward him and studied him, pondering the question for a long moment before she answered.

  “A little, I suppose. You are very strict, and you can be very severe, sometimes. So was he. But . . .” She paused to consider further, then she said slowly, “But you’re different from Papa, and that’s because I know, I have known throughout every moment of my life, that you love me. Knowing that makes all the difference.”

  “Does it?” He stared at her, and suddenly, he knew just what he had to do, and what he had so dismally failed to do. “Angie, you’re a darling,” he cried and grabbed her arms. Laughing at her astonishment in the wake of this fervent declaration, he gave her an appreciative kiss on the forehead. “And I hope like hell you’re right.”

  Chapter 21

  Irene was doodling flowers and hearts and little stick men on the sheet of notepaper in front of her. The stack of work to her right hand remained untouched. Her face, she hoped, was no longer puffy with tears after her crying jag this morning. On the other hand, since it was the latest in a week-long stretch of crying jags, it hardly mattered. And given the pain in her heart, she hardly cared what her face looked like anyway.

  She ought to be glad—glad, damn it—that he’d come back to town for his mother’s wedding. At least some of the things she’d said had gotten through his thick skull. And the breach in his family was apparently healed. How could she not be glad?

  The fact that three entire days had passed since then and he had not come to call on her was not at all surprising. His sisters had come twice to see Clara, but he had not come with them. Still, what else could she expect? He had offered her honorable marriage; she had refused him, giving him a blistering tongue-lashing in the process. From his point of view, what more was there to say?