Dare to Love a Duke

by Eva Leigh

  He must have seen the anger in her face, and her determination, because he said with deliberate calm, “I will request his presence directly.” Mr. Norley donned his jacket and gave it a tug. “Will you wait in the usual place?”

  “Here I was hoping you’d see me up to the drawing room and ply me with cakes and wine.” When the butler did not smile at her poor attempt at levity, she said, “Yes. I’ll wait.”

  At his nod, she turned and headed back down the corridor. The larder stood between the kitchen and the scullery, and she pushed the door open and entered. Shelves lined the chamber—which was larger than her bedroom—and held wheels of cheese and jars containing spices and jams. Large crocks of milled flour also crowded the shelves. A cone of sugar stood ready atop a cabinet.

  She’d been in this room over a dozen times, but it wasn’t a comfortable place she looked forward to inhabiting.

  Lucia shut the door behind her. Yet she could not remain still, and paced back and forth as she waited.

  Finally, footsteps sounded on the flagstones in the corridor. The door opened, and Tom appeared before closing them in together.

  His quizzical expression did little to stem the impact of seeing him again. He was lean and masculine and his dark mourning clothes only brought into sharp relief his handsomeness. But his magnetism only stoked her fury higher.

  “Why?” she demanded hotly.

  He frowned at her question. “You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

  “Why do you hurt the people I’m trying to help?”

  His expression remained infuriatingly blank. “I still can’t make sense of what you’re saying.”

  She held up the paper like a warrior brandishing a sword. “I read about it,” she spat, “the Duke of Brookhurst’s bill for prosecuting transients, mostly veterans—and your vote in favor of it. The paper praised you specifically for continuing your father’s voting legacy.”

  Briefly, he squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, damn.”

  “After the other day,” she said, taking a step toward him, “after you met the girls, I thought you understood. Foolishly, I believed you saw what I worked to do and that you supported it.” Anger and sadness clogged her throat, and she forced her words out. “I was mistaken.”

  “Brookhurst’s son is all but engaged to my sister,” he said in a strained voice. “Opposing the duke means destroying Maeve’s possibility to marry the lad. I have it in plain English from Brookhurst’s own pen. He’ll forbid the marriage if I don’t do as he says, and vote as he desires.”

  The flame of Lucia’s righteous fury guttered, but didn’t extinguish. “A choice must be made. Do you continue on, acting like your father and maintaining old alliances, or do you do the much harder work of razing the castle to the foundations and building a new, modern structure?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said, his jaw firm.

  “I never said it was simple.” She held his gaze with her own. “There comes a time in everyone’s life where we must look into the mirror and truly see ourselves. It’s . . . a difficult task, and one I’m not above. But the work has to be done, or else”—she spread her hands—“nothing changes. Everything stays as it was, and rots.”

  “Goddamn it, you don’t get to judge me.” Agony was plain on his face.

  She inclined her head as the last embers of her rage went cold. “You’re right. That’s God’s work, and of a certain, I am not God.”

  He stalked past her to glare out the small, high-set window. “No one condemns me more harshly than I condemn myself.”

  Her heart contracted sharply at the self-recrimination in his voice and the tension of his posture. She moved to him and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. He went taut beneath her palm, but did not move away.

  “I never had siblings,” she said gently. “There was only Mamma and myself. But I used to wish for a little sister. Someone I could tell secrets to, and get into adventures with. Someone to love and protect.” Bittersweet longing strummed through her in an old, familiar tune. “What you feel for your sorella, it’s a beautiful thing—a rare thing.”

  “She was born a year after I came back to England from Ireland.” His tone was softer now, and warm. “A tiny thing with reddish-brown fuzz on her head and eyes so big you thought you’d fall into them. When she’d grip my finger with her hand, she’d hold me so tightly, I felt that grip all the way down to my heart.” He exhaled. “I can’t deny Maeve her chance to marry Hugh. One of us has to know love.”

  Lucia went still. “And you cannot?”

  He gave a soft snort. “Duty is my obligation. My marriage—when it happens—must be shaped by political strategy, that’s the way of being a duke. So I’ve been told since birth.”

  He turned to face her, yet she did not remove her hand from him, so that her palm rested against his chest.

  Oh, but it felt good to touch him, and absorb the solid warmth of him beneath her. They had shared pleasure together a week ago, yet still her body hummed with it, with the sensations that he created.

  But her need for him was only physical desire. Nothing more.

  “Love is a weapon we use against ourselves,” she said resolutely. “Better never to put the instrument of our destruction into our own hands.”

  He raised a brow. “How is it you’ve such a bleak view of love?”

  “I watch, I learn.” Mamma had been so alone, so mired in her illusion. It had fallen to her daughter to discover the devastating reality. That truth had been sneered at Lucia by her English grandparents, and revealed in a letter written long ago by her father.

  Mamma had been merely a plaything to John Thompson, and her pregnancy was a burden he’d been eager to abandon. So he’d written to his father—the missive itself with its faded ink had been thrust into Lucia’s hands as proof. Her grandparents then pushed her out into the street and locked the door behind her.

  At thirteen years old, orphaned and utterly on her own in a foreign land, she’d realized that to believe in love was to invite disaster and pain.

  “None of that is of consequence,” she said with a shake of her head. “How will you move forward?”

  “I’ve two choices. Follow the path of my conscience or follow the path of my heart.” He exhaled and could not quite disguise the catch in his breath. “Either direction ensures someone suffers.”

  Never had she believed that people of wealth and privilege knew anguish, but in the sharp blue of his eyes she saw pain, like a wild creature caught in a snare.

  She did not say, because she could not, but she pitied him.

  Tom did not want to be here tonight at The Golden Plough, and yet he found himself entering the chophouse, handing his hat, coat, and gloves to a waiting serving lad. All the while, his thoughts were back in the larder at Northfield House, when Lucia had looked at him with the fury of betrayal.

  He couldn’t blame her for her anger. It was a fierce thing, as devastating as a hurricane, and yet her wrath was no match for the recrimination he leveled at himself.

  “The Duke of Brookhurst and his companions await you in the private dining room at the back, Your Grace,” the serving lad informed him. Given that the young man had used the correct form of address, the Duke of Brookhurst must have informed the chophouse’s staff that a duke would be dining with them this night.

  Tom paused. “Companions?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Couple of gentlemen, Your Grace. I didn’t get their names.”

  Tom managed a nod before heading off toward a supper he had no desire to eat.

  He walked through the chophouse, and it came as no surprise that it was full of men he’d known almost his whole life. When he’d been home from school and allowed to join the adults at the dinner table, he’d sat silent and seething as his father and his friends had bleated their opinions on preserving the nation.

  No one had ever asked him his opinion, which, in retrospect, was a good thing.
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  “Good to see you here, Your Grace,” called the Earl of Clarington, his knife and fork poised above his beefsteak. He beamed at Tom with approval. “Capital, you know, having you continue your father’s fine legacy.”

  Tom smiled thinly, but did not stop as he moved as quickly as possible through the main dining area. As he went, more men hailed him, their faces wreathed with approving grins.

  The beginnings of a headache planted behind his eyes as he reached the back of the main dining area. It was easy enough to find the private dining room, as another servant stood beside the door.

  Two more servants were positioned around the chamber, their chins high and their gazes professionally distant. Covered silver dishes lined up atop a sideboard. The chandelier blazed, adding its brilliance to the multitude of lit candelabras. A single round dining table stood in the middle of the room, topped with a white cloth, and seated around it was the Duke of Brookhurst and two silver-haired gentlemen Tom had never met.

  “Ah, Your Grace,” the duke said, rising. He extended his hand, and Tom had no choice but to shake it. “What a pleasure to have you join us.”

  “Say nothing of it,” Tom said.

  The duke smirked as he turned to the other men, who looked at Tom with eager expressions. “May I introduce you to two excellent chaps, Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Dillard, of the Midlands Canal Company?”

  “Gentlemen.” Tom gave them a clipped nod. A sinking feeling pooled in Tom’s belly. Clearly, this was to be a supper with a purpose.

  “It is such an honor, Your Grace,” Pratchett—or Dillard—said, clasping his hands together. “I was just saying to Mr. Pratchett that we have met some of Britain’s most esteemed and distinguished men, but surely none of them compare to His Grace, the Duke of Northfield.”

  “Very true,” Dillard said enthusiastically.

  Tom suppressed a sigh. There was little less appealing than a sycophant. “I need a drink.”

  “Indeed, you do.” The Duke of Brookhurst snapped his fingers and a servant bearing a decanter of wine stepped forward.

  “Something stronger,” Tom said to the servant. The lad bowed before retreating, and a moment later appeared with a glass filled with amber liquid.

  “Whiskey?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Tom took the glass. “Come back in twenty minutes with more.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The footman faded back into his position against the wall.

  After taking a healthy swallow of the burning liquor, Tom sank down into one of the chairs arranged around the dining table. The Duke of Brookhurst and the two canal men followed suit.

  Tom regarded them warily. A time or two at White’s, he had heard other members mention the Midlands Canal Company. The business venture was aggressive in purchasing rights to land, and though they generously compensated the owners of the land, it was clear that they would not permit anyone to decline their offers. Tom couldn’t determine what the consequences of saying no entailed—none of the men at White’s had articulated that clearly—but whatever the canal men wanted, they eventually got.

  “Might I extend our sympathies over the loss of your father?” Pratchett said, his eyes brimming with an attempt at emotion.

  Looking into the bottom of his glass, Tom made a noncommittal sound.

  “A superior man,” Dillard added. “Mr. Pratchett and I admired him greatly.”

  Servants uncovered the dishes of food and brought them forward. There was roast pheasant, a haunch of beef, collared mutton, and fricasseed chicken—and a lone dish of stewed parsnips, since, apparently, all the other animals in England had died in the making of this meal.

  “As well you should,” the Duke of Brookhurst said heartily. “The late duke never faltered in his support of traditional values. Which was why when I approached him to be an investor in the Midlands Canal Company, he eschewed the idea. Didn’t think it quite seemly for a duke to pursue such modern methods for enriching his coffers.”

  Tom said nothing, only grimly helped himself to some of the chicken and parsnips. The other men also served themselves and began to eat.

  “But you,” the duke continued, “are a man of youth and vitality. A man who both preserves ancient traditions whilst also looking forward to the future.”

  “Canals are the future,” Pratchett added, leaning forward. “They ensure that Britain will retain economic supremacy over all other nations.” He looked at Tom excitedly, but his expression fell when Tom only gazed at him with disinterest.

  “After yesterday’s vote,” the Duke of Brookhurst said, “it became clear to me that not only are you a worthy successor to your father’s admirable ambitions, but you can move our country toward even further global dominance. You know,” he continued after taking a bite of pheasant, “many gentlemen of our acquaintance have begged for an introduction to Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Dillard, and you are the only man of our circle that I deemed worthy of the opportunity.”

  Lucky me. “Is that so?” Tom said warily.

  The duke nodded. “Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Dillard are currently in an expansion phase, and are in search of men with exceptional initiative to invest in their enterprise.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “They want money.”

  “We don’t speak of such impolite things,” Dillard said quickly. “Not to gentlemen of your rank, of course. All such matters are to be handled by your men of business, and it is they who will negotiate terms.”

  “However,” Pratchett continued, “you should be made aware of the fact that everyone who has lent their fiscal support to the Midlands Canal Company has seen their profits quadrupled.”

  Tom paused in the middle of raising his glass to his lips. “Quadrupled.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” Pratchett beamed and Dillard did the same as Brookhurst looked on with a smug smile. “That is no exaggeration. In exchange for your faith in us—and your capital, naturally—you will see yourself amply rewarded.”

  “You see, Your Grace,” the duke said with an indulgent look, “I would not extend such an opportunity to anyone but my closest allies, which you have clearly proven to be.”

  Slowly, Tom lowered his glass as his thoughts sped. The duchy’s coffers were ample, but to increase an initial investment fourfold . . . that wasn’t inconsiderable. It was damned tempting. He could funnel a portion of the profits into Maeve’s marriage settlement. The rest could go into charitable organizations badly in need of funding, such as Blakemere’s programs for veterans. Tom would direct a hefty chunk toward Lucia’s home for girls—anonymously, of course. He could use the profits as a means to make amends for the choice he had been forced to make.

  But the price—aligning himself even more tightly with the Duke of Brookhurst—and with a business that was most likely predatory in its practices . . . He felt the bulwark of his principles shudder from Brookhurst’s cannonade. Could he do it?

  He gazed at the watchful faces surrounding the dining table, all of them awaiting his answer.

  “The matter needs further consideration,” he finally said.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Of course.” But Dillard shot an uncertain glance in the duke’s direction.

  “This stage of our latest development requires a commitment within a week,” Pratchett added.

  “I wouldn’t drag my heels on this, Your Grace,” the Duke of Brookhurst said, a note of caution in his voice. “Such an opportunity is rarely made available, and it would be a pity if you were to lose out on this prospect due to inaction.”

  “I will think on it,” Tom said through his teeth. He pushed his plate away, appetite gone. “I find myself overtired. Do excuse me.” He rose, and the other men followed suit. He nodded at the canal men, who bowed deeply. “Gentlemen. Good night.”

  “I’ll escort you out,” the duke announced, and to Tom’s dismay, strode with him toward the front door. As they walked, he clasped Tom’s shoulder. “Appreciate you coming tonight, Your Grace. I spoke in earnest when I said yo
u were worthy of this opportunity. I think it could do great good for your family. For both our families.”

  “Indeed,” Tom said, fighting to keep weariness from his tone.

  The Duke of Brookhurst nodded. “It will be a fine thing, won’t it, when my Hugh and your Lady Maeve can make their betrothal official? The union will be an excellent one. Advantageous to everybody.”

  “They seem quite in love,” Tom said. Gratitude surged in him when he espied the front door. So close to freedom—however illusory.

  “Ah, yes. Love.” The duke smiled indulgently. “The young must have their fantasies.”

  Tom stopped abruptly. “You don’t believe they’re in love?”

  “I believe they believe themselves to be. However,” he made a dismissive gesture, “we must have our eye on more practical matters. Namely, the union of your family with mine, and the consolidation of power in our hands. Yours and mine. It’s precisely what your father would have desired.”

  And what of what I desire?

  An image of Lucia rose up in his mind—not in bed, but in the room where she tutored the impoverished girls of London. Determination and pride lit her face, and resounded within him like a melody. She had such strength, such unwavering resolve. He needed both.

  He needed her. But he couldn’t have her.

  Barring that, what he needed, more than anything, was time and space to consider and sort through the morass of his thoughts.

  “Though your father had not invested in the canals,” the duke continued, “I never doubted his loyalty to our cause. Should you back the company, however, I will take it as a sign of good faith—that I can rely on you. That Hugh and your sister can rely on you. If you don’t . . . How do I know you are trustworthy?”

  Fury stoked within Tom’s chest, clouding his vision. He was chained like a goddamned bear, with the hounds of Brookhurst’s threats tearing out chunks of his flesh.

  Blackmail was the provenance of seedy garret dwellers—or so his youthful self had believed whenever he’d read salacious accounts in the papers. Never had he suspected that the nation’s most powerful men resorted to such filthy tactics.