The Lost Duke of Wyndham

true? It had never even occurred to her before. Had she written a single letter in the years she’d been here? “I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away…” She paused, thinking how sad that was, that she needed her friend to leave so she might be able to write a letter. “…I shall miss her.”

“Yes,” he said, looking somewhat distracted, not that she could blame him, given the current state of his affairs. “You are good friends, aren’t you?”

She nodded, reaching into the recesses of the third drawer. Success! “Ah, here we are.” She pulled forth a small stack of paper, then realized that her triumph meant that she had to go tend to her duties. “I must go write your grandmother’s letters now.”

“She does not write them herself?” he asked with surprise.

Grace almost chuckled at that. “She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. Even I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.”

She looked down at the pages in her hands, shaking them down against the top of the desk first one way and then on the side, to make an even stack. When she looked back up, Thomas was standing a bit closer, looking rather serious.

“I must apologize, Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

Oh, she didn’t want this. She didn’t want an apology, not when she herself held so much guilt in her heart. “For this afternoon?” she asked, her voice perhaps a little too light. “No, please, don’t be silly. It’s a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for-”

“For many things,” he cut in.

He was looking at her very strangely, and Grace wondered if he’d been drinking. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. She had told herself that she mustn’t scold him; truly, it was a wonder he was behaving as well as he was, under the circumstances.

“Please,” she said, hoping to put an end to the discussion. “I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.”

“Thank you,” he said. And then, seemingly out of nowhere: “We depart for Liverpool in two days.”

Grace nodded. She knew this already. And surely he should have known that she was aware of the plans. “I imagine you have much to do before we leave,” she said.

“Almost nothing,” he said, but there was something awful in his voice, almost as if he were daring her to ask his meaning. And there had to be a meaning, because Thomas always had much to do, whether he had a planned departure or not.

“Oh. That must be a pleasant change,” she said, because she could not simply ignore his statement.

He leaned forward slightly, and Grace smelled spirits on his breath. Oh, Thomas. She ached for him, for what he must be feeling. And she wanted to tell him: I don’t want it, either. I want you to be the duke and Jack to be plain Mr. Audley, and I want all of this just to be over.

Even if the truth turned out to be not what she prayed for, she wanted to know.

But she couldn’t say this aloud. Not to Thomas. Already he was looking at her in that piercing way of his, as if he knew all her secrets-that she was falling in love with his rival, that she had already kissed him-several times-and she had wanted so much more.

She would have done more, if Jack had not stopped her.

“I am practicing, you see,” Thomas said.

“Practicing?”

“To be a gentleman of leisure. Perhaps I should emulate your Mr. Audley.”

“He is not my Mr. Audley,” she immediately replied, even though she knew he had only said as much to provoke her.

“He shall not worry,” Thomas continued, as if she’d not spoken. “I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.”

“Thomas, stop,” she said, because she could not bear it. For either of them. “Don’t talk this way. We don’t know that he is the duke.”

“Don’t we?” His lip curled as he looked down at her. “Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.”

“We don’t,” she insisted, and her voice sounded hollow. She felt hollow, as if she had to hold herself perfectly still just to keep from cracking.

He stared at her. For far longer than was comfortable. And then: “Do you love him?”

Grace felt the blood drain from her face.

“Do you love him?” he repeated, stridently this time. “Audley.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” she said before she could think the better of it.

“I imagine you do.”

She stood still, forcing herself to unclench her fists. She’d probably ruined the writing paper; she’d heard it crumple in her hand. He’d gone from apologetic to hateful in the space of a second, and she knew he was hurting inside, but so was she, damn it.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

She drew back, her head turning slightly to the side. He was looking at her so strangely. “At Belgrave?” she said hesitantly. “Five years.”

“And in all that time I haven’t…” He shook his head. “I wonder why.”

Without even thinking, she tried to step back, but the desk blocked her way. What was wrong with him? “Thomas,” she said, wary now, “what are you talking about?”

He seemed to find that funny. “Damned if I know.”

And then, while she was trying to think of a suitable reply, he let out a bitter laugh and said, “What’s to become of us, Grace? We’re doomed, you know. Both of us.”

She knew it was true, but it was terrible to hear it confirmed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Oh, come now, Grace, you’re far too intelligent for that.”

“I should go.”

But he was blocking her way.

“Thomas, I-”

And then-dear heavens-he was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, and her stomach flipped in horror, not because his kiss was repulsive, because it wasn’t. It was the shock of it. Five years she’d been here, and he’d never even hinted at-

“Stop!” She wrenched herself away. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a helpless shrug. “I’m here, you’re here…”

“I’m leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. She needed him to release her. She could have pulled away; he was not holding her tightly. But she needed it to be his decision.

He needed it to be his decision.

“Ah, Grace,” he said, looking almost defeated. “I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it.” He paused, shrugged, held out his hand in surrender.

“Thomas?” she whispered.

And then he said, “Why don’t you marry me when this is all over?”

“What?” Something akin to horror washed over her. “Oh, Thomas, you’re mad.” But she knew what he really meant. A duke could not marry Grace Eversleigh. But if he wasn’t…If he was just plain Mr. Cavendish…Why not?

Acid rose in her throat. He didn’t mean to insult. She didn’t even feel insulted. She knew the world she inhabited. She knew the rules, and she knew her place.

Jack could never be hers. Not if he was the duke.

“What do you say, Gracie?” Thomas touched her chin, tipped her face up to look at him.

And she thought-maybe.

Would it be so very bad? She could not stay at Belgrave, that was for certain. And maybe she would learn to