The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn

by Bronwyn Scott

  They dealt with the jewel case in silence. Most of the Newlyn jewels were kept in the family vault. The items in the case were merely some of his mother’s personal pieces and would be stored until a later time. Vennor shut the case and looked around the room. ‘I suppose you should order new bedding and curtains to update the space,’ he said, but he sounded reluctant.

  Marianne shook her head. ‘You should wait. These are in fine condition and your Duchess will want to style the room to her own taste. It seems a waste to redo the room just to have it made over again.’

  Vennor arched a blond brow. ‘My Duchess? Are you trying to marry me off again, Marianne? This is the second time in two days you’ve mentioned my marrying.’ He was only half-mocking.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to marry sometime, Ven.’ But to whom? Not just any debutante would do. Perhaps that was why he resisted? There was no one who sparked his interest. A wife should have that, at least. ‘Would you like Mama to pick some out for you?’

  His response would have been comical if they hadn’t been so serious. ‘Would you have me marry for less than love? My parents didn’t. Eaton’s, Inigo’s and Cassian’s parents didn’t.’ Vennor pressed the argument for its own sake. She knew as well as he did that most dukes certainly did marry for less than love. They married for duty. In many ways, it was a duke’s only duty, just as she had a duty to marry well for the sake of her family. ‘They managed to combine duty and love. Perhaps I can, too.’ His wistfulness tugged at her. Perhaps he could. Hadn’t the others succeeded in doing so with their own recent marriages? Perhaps he had every reason to hope, yet she felt the urge to ask the honest question.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t have you marry for less than love, it’s just that love is so very hard to find, isn’t it?’ She did not love Lord Hayes, she knew that much. Marianne ran through the list of girls out this Season. There were several pretty ones with good credentials, but none that she could see Vennor falling madly in love with. He needed someone more...lively. She pleated the bedcovering between her fingers. ‘Ven, what if not all of us get to fall in love? What if a good match is the best we can hope for?’

  * * *

  That was the fear, wasn’t it? That he might spend his life searching for something that didn’t exist. Like his parents’ killer. What if he never found the man? What if he never found love? What if the two things he hungered for the most eluded him? When did one stop searching and yield to the inevitable? What did he say to Marianne’s question? That it was indeed a possibility? ‘I will marry, just as soon as I catch their killers.’

  ‘But what if you don’t?’ Marianne was studying him with dark, intelligent eyes. ‘It’s been three years. Surely the thought has crossed your mind.’

  ‘You sound like Inigo and Cassian. They think I ought to give it up, too,’ Vennor snapped.

  ‘I’m not saying you should give up. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Why does marrying have to come after finding the killers?’

  A hundred answers rocketed through his mind.

  Because I don’t know who I am. I have no purpose beyond being the Vigilante.

  Because I am consumed by the search. Who would I be if I abandoned the search?

  Because I have nothing to give a wife right now, not even myself.

  Because I don’t want to fail her the way I failed my parents.

  He’d been failing them long before their deaths, refusing to marry the girls selected by his mother’s best matchmaking efforts, failing to take up the callings his father had laid before him. But he could share none of this with Marianne. The reasons were too private, too shameful to admit out loud, even to his friend. She wouldn’t want to believe them. She insisted on seeing the best in him even when he couldn’t see it in himself. She would want to argue they weren’t true.

  ‘It hardly matters; there’s no one I am interested in, so it’s a moot point.’ His mother had spent years tempting him with this friend’s daughter and that friend’s niece. They were all nice girls but, in the end, they were all the same.

  Marianne straightened, her posture tensing as an idea occurred to her. ‘Ven, do you like girls?’ Her tone was hushed and a brave flush coloured Marianne’s cheeks at the mention of such a scandalous subject.

  ‘Yes, I like girls,’ Vennor answered, although it had been a long time since he’d been with one. I like you. The thought blazed across his consciousness. It wasn’t a new thought. He’d always liked Marianne on a subconscious level. Liking her was a given. He’d never questioned it, never examined the reasons for it.

  Today, watching her manage his house, his staff, his own emotions about moving forward, the realisation took on more obvious import. She would make a fine duchess for the dukedom of Newlyn and they rubbed along well together. ‘Rubbing along’ was a rather lukewarm endorsement, but perhaps a lukewarm assessment was best. This was hardly the time to examine what liking Marianne meant and how deep that liking ran. Neither of them knew their own minds. He was struggling to find a life of his own outside his role as the Vigilante and she was struggling with her own path. It would be easy to abuse the friendship, to use it as a distraction from the real issues facing both of them.

  He should keep Marianne at arm’s length until they’d resolved their own individual issues.

  His mind issued a warning. If you wait, it might be too late. What if she marries Hayes?

  His heart had done a strange little flip of its own accord this morning on seeing her in the hall, listening to her issue the orders for flowers. She seemed right at home at Newlyn House. She’d known exactly what he’d needed. She’d made him laugh while sorting the dresses. She’d transformed his grief into fond remembrances with her stories. That scared him. She was drawing closer, and he wanted her closer, at a time when he needed her further from him, a time when he needed to be alone to finish the journey.

  He got off the bed, the large room suddenly too small for the both of them. His eyes seemed to have nowhere to look but at her face, at her sharp dark eyes, at the redness of her lips and at that full mouth of hers as she gave as good as she got in an argument. What was wrong with him? Since when had Marianne’s mouth become a source of interest? Yesterday, he’d been noticing her breasts. Since when had she become a woman who drew him on merits other than friendship? Since when had the temptation arisen to do something about it? Yesterday? At the Fordhams’? Or had that temptation been there all along, lying dormant, just waiting for a time to raise its head?

  He turned towards the window and drew back the curtain, determined to keep himself from drowning in the dark pools of her eyes, eyes that saw him, knew him, as others did not. Did she feel it, too? This new attraction? These new thoughts? Or had this all been brought on by his loneliness?

  Marianne gave him no relief, the soft floral scent of lilies of the valley cut with vanilla announcing her presence as she came to stand beside him. She stood close—friendship had made them casual with one another.

  ‘Are you all right, Ven?’ She was looking up at him, a tiny furrow of concern on her brow. It would be a simple matter to capture her mouth with his, to test the attraction.

  No, damn it, he wasn’t fine. He wanted to drag her to him and kiss her hard on the mouth, wanted to see if the current between them was shared, to see if it was more than a distraction, an excuse for facing his realities. What would Marianne say if he acted on that impulse? What would she do? Would he ruin their friendship for ever? He found that friendship was too precious to him to risk it. Even if she shared the nascent attraction, what then? He had even less to offer her than anyone else. How could he live with himself if he failed her, too? And how could he not fail her? It seemed as if he was in a double bind. He’d fail her if the attraction was short-lived because the unsuccessful foray would be between them for evermore. He’d fail her if the attraction was real because he could offer her nothing but his brokenness.

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nbsp; ‘Ven, you look queer. I think we’ve done enough for today.’ She looped her arm through his. ‘Let’s go downstairs and see how Honeycutt is coming with the flowers.’

  Yes, he thought. Because if they stayed here, all hell was about to break loose in his mother’s bedchamber.

  Chapter Six

  Spring had broken loose downstairs in their absence. Vases of bright yellow daffodils and colourful Dutch tulips populated sideboards and consoles, adding much-needed colour and a sense of lively warmth to the house. The simple transformation was not lost on Vennor as he helped Marianne and her mother with their shawls. ‘The flowers are a lovely addition,’ he complimented, his hands lingering a moment longer than needed at Marianne’s shoulders. ‘Thank you for this.’

  ‘Flowers are just the beginning.’ Marianne smiled over her shoulder and for a moment they might have been the only two people in the hall. Thank goodness they weren’t. He might have been tempted beyond restraint, tempted to steal that kiss, to experiment with the thoughts that had seated themselves in his mind. ‘We’ll do the ballroom next.’

  Vennor chuckled at that. ‘Why? What do I need a ballroom for?’ He would have thought she’d do the drawing room next or the private sitting rooms.

  Marianne merely gave him an impish grin that boded no good. ‘You never know when you’ll need one. Maybe it’s time to bring back the Newlyn Charity Ball.’

  She was smiling, but she wasn’t joking, the little minx. It made him nervous. She had plans. ‘Why would I do that?’ He could think of nothing worse than hosting a ball. His mother had spent months arranging the charity ball and he didn’t have either the time or the inclination. ‘I don’t know that I want the ton roaming through my parents’ home like tourists.’

  ‘Not your parents’ home, Ven, your home. That’s what today is about and tomorrow, and the next. Making this your home.’ Marianne’s hand cupped his jaw. ‘I know it’s hard, but this is your place now, the seat of your power when you’re in town. You have to show everyone you’re back.’

  ‘I never left. I hold my seat in the House of Lords and I attend select events.’ He’d not once let the Penlerick presence in the House of Lords lapse. He’d taken up his father’s seat immediately, despite his grief. He looked over Marianne’s shoulder, in the hopes of appealing to Lady Treleven for help, but there was none. She was vigorously nodding her head, a sharp gleam in her eye.

  ‘Marianne’s right, Vennor.’ Lady Treleven jumped into the fray. ‘Attending “select” events means you go out little and show up late.’ She wagged a motherly finger in his direction. ‘I know what you’re up to, not showing up until the supper dance and then claiming Marianne. You’re hiding. That’s not being socially available.’ He knew it, too. He just didn’t want to be ‘socially available’, as Lady Treleven put it. It meant dancing with the debutantes and the wallflowers, with hostesses’ daughters and nieces—all the things his mother had asked him to do. It meant less time to play the Vigilante. He couldn’t be patrolling the East Docks if he was dancing attendance on the likes of Lady Lester’s daughters.

  Lady Treleven was firm. ‘It’s time to signal to society that you’re ready to keep up the Penlerick reputation for entertaining. At the very least, you need to resurrect your parents’ charity ball for the London orphanages.’

  Vennor scoffed at the idea, feeling beset. Even Honeycutt, who was exceedingly busy straightening tulips in a vase as an excuse for eavesdropping, was no help. ‘Forgive my disagreement. The only thing a ball will signal is that I am ready to wed. Every matchmaking mama in London will line up for an invitation.’ The only thing worse than the ton roaming through his house was a ballroom full of girls wanting to marry his title. He hadn’t the time for that this Season. ‘Maybe next year,’ Vennor opted to politely table the idea. ‘I think it might be a bit much for me this year, with the Season already underway.’

  ‘We’d plan it, wouldn’t we, Mama?’ Marianne joined her mother at the door and slipped her arm through her mother’s. Forces joined. ‘You wouldn’t have to do anything except show up.’

  ‘I have all of Her Grace’s notes about the ball; the caterer she used, the florists and the decorators,’ Honeycutt offered. ‘Shall I get them for you?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you, Honeycutt. See how easy it will be? Why, it’s practically planned already.’ Marianne beamed.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Honeycutt.’ Vennor glowered at the unhelpful butler. ‘The ladies need to be off, I’m sure.’ With luck, the collective ardour for such an undertaking would diminish to more manageable proportions tomorrow. He moved towards the door, opening it himself with a bow. ‘I will see you tonight, Marianne, at the Gaspards’. Shall I call with the carriage at half past seven?’ Perhaps on the ride over, he could talk her out of her latest madcap idea.

  ‘Or perhaps I can talk you into it,’ she murmured, reading his thoughts as she passed him.

  Well, she could try. Vennor shut the door behind them and girded himself to face that traitor Honeycutt. He would stand firm on this. There would be no ball.

  * * *

  There would be a ball, Marianne thought resolutely, settling in the landau. The folding hoods had been retracted so they could take advantage of the fine weather on the drive between Portland Square and Curzon Street. Marianne was in high spirits. If only Vennor’s spirits were as elevated. Today had been full of progress on that account, though. She had pushed him in some ways, like the mention of the ball, and given him his privacy in others. But she had not coddled him. The time for that had passed, if it had ever existed. Vennor had not coddled himself, had not wallowed in self-pity when his parents died. He’d taken up the dukedom immediately and relentlessly, working harder than his friends had felt he ought. But he’d made himself a recluse in the process. A duke had a social duty as well as a political one and Vennor had done little of the former.

  ‘You did well today, my dear,’ her mother complimented as the landau merged into afternoon traffic. ‘Vennor can’t possibly have failed to notice what an excellent manager you are. Any home of yours will run smoothly.’

  Marianne tilted her head to study her mother. It was an odd comment to make. ‘I don’t think Vennor particularly cares whether or not I can write out a dinner menu.’ She could run a large house. Her mother had included home management as part of the education of all her daughters once they turned thirteen, but just because she was an apt hand at it didn’t mean she wanted to do it. She wasn’t like her sister Ayleth, who’d married an MP and absolutely prided herself on running his home.

  Her mother arched a brow. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Today allowed Vennor the opportunity to see you with new eyes. I rather think he took that opportunity.’

  Coming on the heels of her own new awareness of the edge, the spark—whatever one wanted to call it—between her and Vennor, the comment made her uneasy. What did it mean if her mother saw it, too? There were indeed ‘new eyes’, as her mother put it, and not just his, but hers as well. This afternoon, at the window in his mother’s room, there’d been a moment when she could have sworn Vennor had wanted to kiss her.

  And her curiosity had wanted him to.

  The moment had gone as quickly as it had come, but not the wanting—that had lingered along with his hands on her shoulders in the hall and she had welcomed it. She did not, however, welcome her mother’s intrusion. The gleam in her mother’s eye was positively alarming. Anyone who looked at Sarah Treleven and saw a pretty, biddable woman in her midforties didn’t look hard enough. She was a veritable tigress when it came to her daughters. It was no wonder, Marianne thought, that Rosenwyn had hidden her courtship with Cador Kitto until the very end. Now, all her mother’s tenacity and energy was focused on her.

  ‘Vennor must marry. His delay does not eradicate the need. His reluctance is obvious.’ Her mother adjusted her parasol against the sun.

 
‘There’s no one out this Season who catches his eye.’ Marianne suddenly felt defensive of her friend. Maybe Vennor was right to refuse her mother’s help in matchmaking. Her mother would have him wedded in no time.

  Her mother waved a dismissive hand. ‘There are plenty of girls this Season. There’s Leah St John. She’s lovely and plays the piano exquisitely. There’s Amelia Helmsley. Her father’s an earl and her manners are divine, as is her dowry. If I had a son, I’d send him in her direction without hesitation.’

  ‘They hardly know him.’ A queer, unpleasant flutter had taken up residence in her stomach at the thought of Vennor marrying either of them. They were both nice girls, yet she didn’t want them with Vennor. Vennor was...hers. He’d always been hers. It was Vennor who’d given her piggyback rides through the summer woods, Vennor who’d always talked the others into letting her tag along on fishing trips. It was Vennor who’d captained the boys’ team in charades against her girls’ team. She found now that she didn’t want to share him. Did Vennor feel this way when she waltzed off with Lord Hayes? She supposed she’d have to get used to the feeling. It was one thing to theorise about Vennor marrying, it was another to accept it as inevitable. The latter was far harder to get used to. Her mother was right. Vennor had to marry someone and the sooner the better.

  Her mother gave her a pointed look. ‘There’s you.’