“Are you?” Juliet asked.
“Oh, I am!” Sebastian tossed his long blond locks and did not seem to mind that Beau Brummel would have quaffed at the sight of them, or that his skin was oddly sun-kissed, even though everyone seemed proud of keeping even a freckle from their skin, as if to boast at the ability of their hats’ brims to function.
“But I have to share the news with you,” Sebastian said. “Perhaps we can speak in private?”
“Lady Juliet knows everything.”
“Well, in that case, she should be happy to know that we’ve discovered who the criminal is.”
Lucas raised his eyebrows. “You were busy last night.”
Sebastian nodded. “Indeed.”
“Well, I’m happy.” Lucas’s heart thrummed merrily. Clearly, Sebastian had discovered that Sherwood was responsible for so much vileness. Juliet wouldn’t marry Sherwood, and then...
He glanced at Juliet, and her eyes sparkled.
Lucas beamed. He was going to spend the rest of his life with Juliet. “I’m very happy.”
“You’re not going to ask who it is?” Sebastian furrowed his brow.
Lucas gave a modest shrug. “I have a suspicion.”
After all, the Duke of Sherwood had vast resources at his disposal. Juliet had told Lucas how oddly busy the man was, and he’d been instructed to search for someone who was not a conventional suspect.
Who could be less conventional than the Duke of Sherwood?
Lucas had never liked the man. That much had not changed.
“Yes,” Sebastian said. “Apparently, the magistrate was responsible.”
“The magistrate?” Lucas coughed. “Mr. Thymes? I didn’t expect that.”
Sebastian shrugged. “Well, you were gone.”
“So, you discovered this all by yourself?”
Sebastian grinned. “He had a counterfeit press in his library. Claimed he never saw it before. I knew better, of course.”
“Ah,” Lucas said, feeling he was supposed to have done this himself. “I should have been there.”
Sebastian shrugged. “You needn’t worry. I was able to help.”
“I’m glad,” Lucas said.
“His wife was most shocked,” Sebastian mused. “The secrets people keep.”
“Yes.” Lucas nodded his head. A queasy feeling had settled into his stomach, and when he looked at Juliet, her face had grown pale as well.
“Mr. Thyme’s an elderly man. He’s not the first person I would think of, but I suppose after a lifetime of hunting criminals, he might become quite curious and decide to become a criminal himself. Wish list before he dies and all that.”
“Er—yes,” Lucas said, even though he couldn’t imagine creating a wish list in which he would do anything illegal, much less the dreadful things this man had done.
He hadn’t been analytical enough. He’d considered the magistrate, but only briefly. The man’s careful nature and elderly figure had made him assign wisdom to the man that obviously wasn’t there.
“I should probably leave,” Juliet said in a small voice.
“Very well,” Lucas said, pretending it didn’t hurt his heart to say those words.
Sebastian looked at them oddly, and Lucas shook his head slightly. Thankfully, Sebastian did not pry. Sebastian seemed to enjoy pretending to be less intelligent than he was.
“Would you like to go straight away?” Lucas asked.
“Yes,” Juliet said, raising her chin. “That would be appropriate.”
Juliet didn’t say that remaining here wouldn’t be appropriate, but then, she didn’t need to do so.
Lucas had allowed himself to imagine there might be something between them. He’d allowed himself to imagine hauling Sherwood away, and he’d allowed himself to imagine comforting Juliet and offering himself as another suitor.
Blast it, he’d imagined proposing to her.
But now none of that would happen. Juliet believed in loyalty, and she would be unlikely to abandon Sherwood. Not when the most nefarious thing Sherwood had done was to miss a ball.
Lucas’s heart squeezed uncomfortably, but he gave a curt nod. “I’ll walk you to the castle.”
Sebastian’s eyes remained wide, but he dipped into an appropriate bow. “It was a pleasure seeing you again under these better circumstances.”
“Indeed,” Juliet said.
Lucas didn’t say anything. He was worried that if he did, his voice would too obviously crack. He’d been blinded by his dislike of Sherwood.
Lucas had had everything wrong, and now he’d even lost his heart.
LUCAS STRODE WITH JULIET and her cousin toward the castle, making polite conversation about weather patterns. He ignored a dull ache in his chest.
“There’s the duke.” Genevieve pointed and waved to Sherwood.
The man narrowed his eyes and started to move up the hill.
“I should find my father,” Juliet said hastily.
“Tell him you plan to stay longer with me,” Genevieve said.
“Er—yes.”
Juliet turned to Lucas. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Lucas forced himself to smile, as if the word were not difficult to say, as if his heart were not shattering.
Lucas left Juliet in Sherwood Castle and trudged toward his cottage.
“Ah, Ainsworth.” The Duke of Sherwood joined him. “I saw you speaking with my betrothed.”
Tension swept through Lucas. “And Miss Devon.”
The Duke of Sherwood was silent, as if he considered Miss Devon of no interest.
“Why were you speaking with Lady Juliet?”
“We—er—met while I was doing my botanical research.”
“So, that explains why you came down the hill together.”
“Er—yes. I’d been fortunate to make Lady Juliet’s acquaintance before.”
“I would not like to see her speaking to men to whom she’d not been introduced.”
“Naturally not.”
“I also don’t like to see her speaking to men at all.”
Lucas flushed.
“It might be easy for men to grow too attached to her.” The Duke of Sherwood’s eyes flashed. “She will be my duchess. She will be happy.”
Lucas didn’t nod. He didn’t slap the Duke of Sherwood on the back agreeably and say that Juliet would be very happy marrying Sherwood and offer his congratulations.
He couldn’t do that, because his body had turned to lead. Movement was impossible. At one time, Lucas had battled the French, galloping into battle with his horse, unconcerned with anything except to make certain England was protected.
But even though no one was directing weapons at him, Lucas couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He certainly couldn’t nod.
The Duke of Sherwood shot Lucas a smug smile, and Lucas had the horrible impression that the Duke of Sherwood knew exactly what Lucas’s thoughts were on Juliet.
Suddenly, Lucas felt foolish. He shouldn’t be standing opposite the Duke of Sherwood. He should be far away.
“Now, tell me the real reason you’re here,” the Duke of Sherwood said.
“The real reason?”
“You don’t strike me as a man interested in botany,” the Duke of Sherwood said.
Lucas stilled.
I love her.
The words came unbidden into his mind.
He needed to speak with Lady Juliet, whether she was engaged or not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After Sherwood was out of sight, Lucas hastily returned to the castle, entering through the secret corridor via the barn. He found Juliet in the drawing-room and pulled her toward him.
“Lucas?” Surprise was on her face, but he ignored it.
Lucas grasped Juliet’s hand and pulled her through a heavy wooden door to the outside. Bullet-colored clouds shot over the steel sky. Long strands of grass rippled under the strength of the wind. Blossoms writhed from their perches, as if valiantly attempting to hold onto their pos
itions. Hail hurtled toward the ground, landing with heavy thuds and threatened to tear Juliet’s attire.
“You came to show me the weather?” Confusion rippled through her voice.
“What? Nonsense.” Lucas frowned. “I came to talk with you.”
Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t love him,” Lucas said. “I don’t want you to return to him.”
Juliet stared at him.
Heavens, she was so beautiful. She didn’t realize how much he longed to have her in his arms. Her long lashes fluttered up, and her eyes widened, just as they’d done a million times before.
“I made him a promise,” Juliet said.
“He doesn’t care for you as I care for you.”
“No,” she admitted after a while, and Lucas instantly regretted his words. “Perhaps not. But perhaps he can learn to do so after a while.”
“I’m sure he can,” Lucas said, even though the words weren’t the least bit strategic. “Only a fool couldn’t fall in love with you.”
She jerked her head up, startled. “You—”
She left the words unsaid. Perhaps she didn’t want to make him utter them. She didn’t want to muse over the words as she lay in bed, but perhaps even more, she didn’t want to make him say words that she could never say back.
She wasn’t the type of woman who would grow pleased at flattery, collecting declarations of love and compliments with glee.
That was one thing he loved about her.
One of many, many things.
Still, he nodded.
He loved her.
He loved her so much.
But he wouldn’t say the words if there was a chance it might cause her pain. She’d chosen Sherwood, and he would have to honor that request. He wasn’t going to insult her intelligence. She would be fine. It would be arrogant of him to assume she couldn’t live without him. He would live without her, even if his heart ached every day, even if his smiles grew more forced, and even if his melancholy grew more.
He would live without her.
He would have to.
“Goodbye, Lady Juliet,” he said.
She stiffened, perhaps conscious of his sudden formality, and for a moment, he regretted his words.
He stepped nearer, conscious of the scent of roses that always seemed to emanate from her skin. He was conscious of her breath, conscious of her throat moving up and down in a faint rhythm, and conscious of her lips.
He wanted to kiss them. He craved them. He wanted to kiss her and hold her and worship her.
But instead, he only gave a slight peck to her cheek. The contact was slight, brotherly, but heat still soared through him at the touch of her velvet skin. A silky auburn strand fell against his face, and he longed to run his hands through her hair.
That would remain a dream.
Just like all their conversation would be relegated to memories, and every good moment they’d shared would now be bittersweet, because he would never be able to capture the time with her again.
“I should leave,” he said.
“We can be friends,” Juliet said brightly. “You can keep your cottage. Perhaps you have things in common with Sherwood. Besides both being dukes, of course. He isn’t truly so terrible.”
“No,” Lucas said, even though he was of the opinion that the duke was utterly abominable. Still, he didn’t want Juliet to worry. Perhaps Sherwood would realize he was married to the loveliest woman in the world and be brilliant and kind, even if it was against his nature. After all, weren’t Catholics always saying miracles were happening?
He trudged from the castle. The dark gray slate stones should have been dull, but the castle emanated majestic grace.
His own hired cottage that had been arranged by the government seemed trite in comparison. Lucas had moved around the Lake District easily, adopting the role of secret investigator and easily embracing the role of an enthusiastic botanist.
But perhaps he hadn’t learned as much as he’d thought. Perhaps he’d blamed the Duke of Sherwood for the events occurring in the district for no other reason than that he’d favored Lady Juliet. He’d been overly eager to not see Lady Juliet be betrothed to the Duke of Sherwood that he’d suspected him of running an entire criminal ring.
The fact was absurd. The Duke of Sherwood was the richest man in the region. No one required things less than him. He’d been motivated more by intuition than facts, even though he’d always considered facts to be of greater importance before.
But facts couldn’t compare to the attractions of Lady Juliet. No matter how reasonable they were, how carefully they were written with a quill, excess ink dabbed carefully beforehand, he’d been too quick to disregard the information.
There was nothing to do but return to his cottage.
Perhaps he should give up entirely. The thatched roof had seemed quaint and charming when he’d arrived, but this wasn’t his true home.
His estate was in Staffordshire.
He trudged slowly up the hill. More flowers were blossoming, but it didn’t matter. Dark gray clouds crowded the sky, and wind swept over him from all directions.
No doubt the wind would have refrained from sweeping up the tails of Sherwood’s tailcoat. Lucas scowled. He’d considered himself happy before, but he hadn’t known then what true happiness could be.
He didn’t want to think about Sherwood with Juliet. Sherwood listening to her laugh. Sherwood having her at his arm. Sherwood touching her.
Nausea touched his throat, as if he’d fallen onto a ship in the middle of the Atlantic. But unlike on a ship, the storm would never pass. He’d never reach land, and the clouds would never dart away and the waves would never calm.
His heart would always long for Juliet, and he would never have her.
He’d been lucky to have met her, lucky to know that someone could be wonderful, lucky to learn that life could be livelier than he’d ever imagined.
And now he would remember her.
It was all the only thing left to do.
The door opened, and Stanley peered out.
“Your Grace!” Stanley called out. “Are you quite well?”
“I’m fine.” Lucas’s voice sounded hoarse, even against the strength of the rain and the suddenly falling raindrops.
Concern remained in Stanley’s eyes, though he did not contradict Lucas.
Lucas reached the door of his cottage, and Stanley helped him from his coat. Lucas’s heart thudded oddly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Juliet was about to marry Horatius, and the Duke of Sandridge, and by extension, the Duke of Ainsworth, had said Horatius was not responsible for any wrongdoings.
Everything was perfect.
Even the castle was nicer than she’d imagined.
She swallowed hard and sank onto the chaise longue. The butler gave her an odd look, and she hastily forced herself to smooth her countenance. She attempted to think of bland, innocuous things: the coquelicot wallpaper, the rain pattering on the window, promising a wet journey back to Genevieve’s house, and the tasteful vase of roses on the table.
The pink blooms were perfect.
Exquisite.
And yet...
Something didn’t feel right.
She was supposed to love the Duke of Sherwood. She was going to be his wife. She was going to be the mother of his children. She was going to be his greater confidante, his best friend, his—
This was what she’d dreamed of, what she’d worked so hard to obtain: marriage to a man everyone would envy, but an unpleasant taste lingered in her mouth. She grabbed a sweet from a crystal jar on the table, hoping the crunch of meringue might chase away the unpleasantness.
It did not.
The crumbs felt dry in her mouth. The butler gazed at her suspiciously, and she rose abruptly.
Perhaps there was a reason for the butler to be suspicious. Perhaps she didn’t appear like a woman, anxious and eager and excited, to be in her future husba
nd’s home. Perhaps her gaze did not mist appropriately when surveying examples of her betrothed’s exemplary taste. Similarly, she didn’t linger her gaze on the gilt-framed portrait of the Duke of Sherwood that hung on the wall opposite the entrance, nor did she rest her eyes on the other portrait of him, this time riding his horse, perched opposite the chaise-longue.
I don’t love him.
The thought roared in her mind, followed by another, far more dangerous thought: I love Lucas.
Fiddle-faddle.
She wasn’t supposed to love Lucas. That had never been the plan.
Still...
She couldn’t avoid the fact. She had to tell Horatius. She was not going to surprise him later.
Juliet hurried to the library to speak with Horatius. Finally, she found him. Her heart quaked, but she resisted the temptation to scurry back. She’d promised she would marry Horatius, and that hadn’t changed, but she still needed to speak with him.
“Lady Juliet.” Horatius flashed his perfect smile.
“There’s something you need to know,” Juliet said.
“Yes?” He shot her a quizzical look. The man remained handsome even with one eyebrow jutting up, and even with his forehead furrowed.
There was a reason why other women had been jealous when she’d announced her match with him.
Still.
None of that changed how she felt.
Horatius needed to know. It wouldn’t be honorable for him to venture into a marriage without telling him beforehand.
“You look most serious,” he observed. “Please tell me you haven’t broken any of the vases in the corridor. Some of them are Chinese. I don’t much care for them myself, but my estate manager assures me that they were expensive.”
Juliet blinked. “I-I didn’t break anything.”
Horatius gave her a searching look, as if he were dubious of her claims.
She frowned. She rather suspected Lucas wouldn’t care if she smashed every item in his cottage into smithereens, but it was unfair to compare the two men, even in her mind, and she vowed to halt.
“No, it’s something else.”
“Hmph,” Sherwood said. “So hardly a crisis.”
My Favorite Duke (The Duke Hunters Club Book 2) Page 14