The Lost Duke of Wyndham

love him. She already did, really, as a friend.

He leaned down to kiss her again, and this time she let him, praying that her heart would pound and her pulse would race and that spot between her legs…Oh, please let it feel as it did when Jack touched her.

But there was nothing. Just a rather warm sense of friendship. Which she supposed wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“I can’t,” she whispered, turning her face to the side. She wanted to cry.

And then she did cry, because Thomas rested his chin on her head, comforting her like a brother.

Her heart twisted, and she heard him whisper, “I know.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jack did not sleep well that night, which left him irritable and out of sorts, so he dispensed with breakfast, where he was sure to run into persons with whom he might be expected to converse, and instead went directly outside for his now customary morning ride.

It was one of the finest things about horses-they never expected conversation.

He had no idea what he was meant to say to Grace once he saw her again. Lovely kissing you. Wish we’d done more.

It was the truth, even if he’d been the one to cut them off. He’d been aching for her all night.

He might have to marry this one.

Jack stopped cold. Where had that come from?

From your conscience, a niggling little voice-probably his conscience-told him.

Damn. He really needed to get a better night’s sleep. His conscience was never this loud.

But could he? Marry her? It was certainly the only way he’d ever be able to bed her. Grace was not the sort of woman one dallied with. It wasn’t a question of her birth, although that certainly was a factor. It was just… her. The way she was. Her uncommon dignity, her quiet and sly humor.

Marriage. What a curious notion.

It wasn’t that he’d been avoiding it. It was just that he’d never considered it. He was rarely in one place for long enough to form a lasting attachment. And his income was, by nature of his profession, sporadic. He wouldn’t have dreamed of asking a woman to make a life with a highwayman.

Except he wasn’t a highwayman. Not any longer. The dowager had seen to that.

“Lovely Lucy,” Jack murmured, patting his gelding on the neck before dismounting at the stables. He supposed he ought to give the poor thing a man’s name. They’d been together for so long, though. It’d be hard to make the change.

“My longest lasting attachment,” Jack murmured to himself as he walked back to the house. “Now that’s pathetic.” Lucy was a prince, as far as horses went, but still, he was a horse.

What did he have to offer Grace? He looked up at Belgrave, looming over him like a stone monster, and almost laughed. A dukedom, possibly. Good Lord, but he didn’t want the thing. It was too much.

And what if he wasn’t the duke? He knew that he was, of course. His parents had been married; he was quite certain of that. But what if there was no proof? What if there had been a church fire? Or a flood? Or mice? Didn’t mice nibble at paper? What if a mouse-no, what if an entire legion of mice had chewed through the vicarage register?

It could happen.

But what did he have to offer her if he was not the duke?

Nothing. Nothing at all. A horse named Lucy, and a grandmother who, he was growing increasingly convinced, was the spawn of Satan. He had no skills to speak of-it was difficult to imagine parlaying his talents at highway thievery into any sort of honest employment. And he would not go back into the army. Even if it was respectable, it would take him away from his wife, and wasn’t that the entire point?

He supposed that Wyndham would pension him off with some cozy little rural property, as far away from Belgrave as possible. He would take it, of course; he’d never been one for misplaced pride. But what did he know about cozy little rural properties? He’d grown up in one but never bothered to pay attention to how it was run. He knew how to muck out a stall and flirt with the maids, but he was quite certain there was more to it than that, if one wanted to make a decent go of it.

And then there was Belgrave, still looming over him, still blotting out the sun. Good Lord, if he did not think he could properly manage a small rural property, what the devil would he do with this? Not to mention the dozen or so other holdings in the Wyndham portfolio. The dowager had listed them one night at supper. He couldn’t begin to imagine the paperwork he’d be required to review. Mounds of contracts, and ledgers, and proposals, and letters-his brain hurt just thinking of it.

And yet, if he did not take the dukedom, if he somehow found a way to stop it all before it engulfed him-what would he have to offer Grace?

His stomach was protesting his skipped breakfast, so he made haste up the steps to the castle’s entrance and went inside. The hall was quite busy, with servants moving through, carrying out their myriad tasks, and his entrance went mostly unnoticed, which he did not mind. He pulled off his gloves and was rubbing his hands together to warm them back up when he glimpsed Grace at the other end of the hall.

He did not think she’d seen him, and he started to go to her, but as he passed one of the drawing rooms, he heard an odd collection of voices and could not contain his curiosity. Pausing, he peeked in.

“Lady Amelia,” he said with surprise. She was standing rather stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. He could not blame her. He was sure he’d feel tense and pinched if he were engaged to marry Wyndham.

He entered the room to greet her. “I did not realize you had graced us with your lovely presence.”

It was then that he noticed Wyndham. He couldn’t not, really. The duke was emitting a rather macabre sound. Almost like laughter.

Standing next to him was an older gentleman of middling height and paunch. He looked every inch the aristocrat, but his complexion was tanned and wind-worn, hinting at time spent out of doors.

Lady Amelia coughed and swallowed, looking rather queasy. “Er, Father,” she said to the older man, “may I present Mr. Audley? He is a houseguest at Belgrave. I made his acquaintance the other day when I was here visiting Grace.”

“Where is Grace?” Wyndham said.

Something about his tone struck Jack as off, but nonetheless he said, “Just down the hall, actually. I was walking-”

“I’m sure you were,” Wyndham snapped, not even looking at him. Then, to Lord Crowland: “Right. You wished to know my intentions.”

Intentions? Jack stepped farther into the room. This could be nothing but interesting.

“This might not be the best time,” Lady Amelia said.

“No,” said Wyndham, his manner uncharacteristically grand. “This might be our only time.”

While Jack was deciding what to make of that, Grace arrived. “You wished to see me, your grace?”

For a moment Wyndham was nonplussed. “Was I that loud?”

Graced motioned back toward the hall. “The footman heard you…”

Ah yes, footmen abounded at Belgrave. It did make one wonder why the dowager thought she might actually be able to keep the journey to Ireland a secret.

But if Wyndham minded, he did not show it. “Do come in, Miss Eversleigh,” he said, sweeping his arm in welcome. “You might as well have a seat at this farce.”

Jack began to feel uneasy. He did not know his newfound cousin well, nor did he wish to, but this was not his customary behavior. Wyndham was too dramatic, too grand. He was a man pushed to the edge and teetering badly. Jack recognized the signs. He had been there himself.

Should he intercede? He could make some sort of inane comment to pierce the tension. It might help, and it would certainly affirm what Wyndham already thought of him-rootless joker, not to be taken seriously.

Jack decided to hold his tongue.