Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  She sat at the wedding breakfast, surrounded by merriment, guilt rendering her stomach an acidic churn of bile. The bride, the Duchess of Burghly, was radiant. The groom, Mr. Ludlow, looked upon her with such naked love, Bridget could not help but feel as if she were intruding whenever she glanced in their direction. Their love was obvious, and it glowed like a lighthouse beacon from the shores at night, guiding ships safely into harbor.

  Envy mixed with her shame.

  What would it be like to be loved with such undisguised devotion? And how could she bear to torment these two people who had only shown her kindness and compassion by taking the young duke from them? Moreover, how could she bear to lead the lad she’d grown rather fond of to an uncertain fate with John?

  You must do it, she told herself. For Cullen’s sake. John vowed he would not harm the boy.

  But did she dare trust John? Did she dare do as she had promised she would before leaving London on this devil’s mission?

  She gripped her wine goblet, raised it to her lips, drank. The sweet yet bitter liquid slid over her tongue like an elixir. Perhaps it would numb her. Relieve some of the tension threatening to choke her alive. Two more hasty gulps were all she would allow herself before she decided any more would draw curious stares. Strange enough that a governess would be present at the wedding breakfast alongside her charge. But that she was surrounded by dukes and certain enemies, alone in a chamber filled with people she was deceiving—people she would hurt—only served to heighten her tension.

  “Perhaps you need not look so grim-faced, brother.” The Duke of Carlisle raised his glass in a salute then, stealing her attention. “I received word not long ago of arrests having been made in Dublin.”

  Arrests. Dublin.

  Those two words, along with Carlisle’s relaxed, almost self-congratulatory manner, could mean only one thing: some of the men responsible for the Duke of Burghly’s murder had been captured. They had been men like John. Like Cullen.

  Dead men did not talk, but imprisoned men did, which meant everyone in the organization was vulnerable to implication.

  Including Bridget.

  She went numb, but not numb in the manner she had hoped. Her fingers ceased to function, and instead of placing her goblet calmly upon the table linen, she dropped it. With a dull thud, the goblet upended, and a dark stain spread all over the white cloth. She watched it grow, thinking it oddly reminiscent of a pool of blood from a body.

  Was this how it had looked when the Duke of Burghly was slashed to death with surgical knives in Phoenix Park in Dublin?

  When would the bloodshed end?

  And why, oh why, had she become complicit in this madness?

  The cause was right. The actions being taken were wrong. Too extreme. Too dangerous and deadly.

  What if the dropped glass, the spilled wine, were an omen meant for her? A sign she too would be claimed as a victim in this war they waged against the English menace?

  All sets of eyes were upon her, curious, concerned, startled. The Duke of Carlisle’s were dark and narrowed. Calculating. She looked away, lest he read something in the depths of her eyes, and reached for her napkin. The man was dangerous. Her enemy in every way. She could not allow him to see her, the real her. According to John, observing people and judging their weaknesses was one of the duke’s gifts. One she could not afford for him to use against her.

  “I do beg your pardon,” she muttered softly to the table at large, attempting to dab at the offending spill. “I am not ordinarily so clumsy.”

  “You must not concern yourself with such trifles, Miss Palliser,” offered the Duchess of Burghly sweetly. “Today is a day of joy, and not even a thousand spilled glasses could spoil it.”

  Bridget swallowed, wishing herself anywhere else. Wishing they had not insisted upon her presence here, where she did not belong, amongst all the people she would shortly betray. She knew she was not meant to think of them as people. That they were in fact her enemies. Obstacles standing between Cullen and his life, between herself and her freedom, between Ireland and the right to be governed by her own people.

  But yet, despite all that, Bridget felt her cheeks go hot with shame. She did not deserve this woman’s compassion. Not when she would soon abscond with her son.

  She would have responded, but her tongue refused to move, singularly frozen by guilt, shame, and self-loathing. Bridget felt the Duke of Carlisle’s gaze like a touch before she even scanned the assemblage to find him watching her.

  “All the men responsible for the outrage against the Duke of Burghly have now been captured,” Carlisle said, his gaze remaining pinned to her. “Just yesterday. A treasure trove of information has been discovered along with them, and my Dublin sources assure me that more arrests will inevitably follow.” He paused, shifting his attention to Mr. Ludlow. “This nightmare is at its end. I was saving the good news for after the nuptials.”

  Bridget felt the air expel from her lungs as if she had been issued a blow. Around her, the other wedding guests gave their reactions. There were sounds of joy, disbelief. Relief. Her gaze traveled to the bride, who was ethereal in her gown, her vivid red hair swept into a simple Grecian braid and knot.

  The Duchess of Burghly raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob as she turned to her husband, her heart in her eyes, hope evident in her expression. “Oh, Clay, does this mean we are free at last?”

  “It is my greatest hope,” said her husband, tugging her to him, and pressing a reverent kiss to her forehead, before the entire assemblage.

  Nausea churned inside Bridget. Partially because she feared the release of the treasure trove of information the Duke of Carlisle promised, along with the additional arrests. She had friends and acquaintances caught up within this web. Too many to count. But also because she was witness to the sheer joy and relief of the duchess and her husband, on their wedding day, of all days, while she knew herself to be the evil in their midst. She knew she would—must—rob them of their happiness. Time was running out for her. If arrests had been made, her identity could already have been revealed.

  She would have to act now, or never.

  “This is wonderful news indeed,” said Mr. Ludlow’s mother. She was one of the kindest ladies Bridget had ever met, possessing a boundless heart and an infinite desire to get to know those around her. She had already coaxed Bridget into revealing more about herself than she would have comfortably dared. It was a gift the woman had. “I could not be more pleased. I only wish your father could be here now. How proud he would be of his two sons. How happy he would be to welcome Ara and Edward into our family.”

  “My mama says that everyone in heaven is still with you in your heart,” the young duke offered solemnly, his earnest words tugging at Bridget’s heart in a way she wished they did not. “They will always be there, and no one can remove them or their love.”

  Bridget bit her lip at the boy’s speech. Such a young child, without a father. How she hated that it had all been because of the cause she believed in, the cause she fought for even now. She felt too much for this young man. For his family. These were not faceless, unfamiliar enemies, but people she had come to know. People she respected. Cared for even.

  “How right your mama is,” Mr. Ludlow said with a gentleness that belied his large, hulking form and the vicious scar cutting down his cheek. “No matter how great the distance, or how long the time apart, the ones you love will always be there in your heart.”

  “I love you so,” the duchess whispered to her new husband, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Even so, the entire table was smiling. It was a time of celebration. Of great relief. Of love and looking to the future. Bridget hated herself for what she would soon do. For being the one who would destroy this moment of perfect, absolute peace.

  “That is certainly true,” added another one of the wedding guests, offering her husband a look that shone with unabashed adoration “Would you not say so, my husband?”

 
The look her husband gave her in return was every bit as lovestruck. “I would most certainly concur.”

  “Forgive me,” drawled the Duke of Carlisle then, with the icy hauteur only he could affect. “Excessive sentiment makes me bilious. Let us carry on with the breakfast before I lose my appetite, shall we?”

  “You do not appear to have lost your appetite, Your Grace,” Bridget’s charge observed out of turn.

  Bridget had been watching Carlisle surreptitiously over the course of the breakfast, and she could not deny the lad’s truthfulness. The Duke of Carlisle had, unquestionably, cleared his plate of this course and all those that had come before it.

  But she supposed it would require an immense appetite to satisfy a frame as large and as strong as the duke’s. He towered over everyone, save Mr. Ludlow, his height and his strength both formidable. Everything about him suggested he was dangerous.

  “You may call me Uncle Leo, scamp,” Carlisle admonished Bridget’s charge without a trace of heat, his harsh exterior softening with an almost boyish quality. “And I will thank you kindly to mind your own plate. I do not suppose you can finish yours and watch mine at the same time, can you?”

  The young duke smiled, undeterred. “No, Uncle Leo.”

  “Just so.” Carlisle’s attention abruptly returned to Bridget, his dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity that stole her breath anew. “Perhaps your governess ought to teach you about manners if she has not yet done so.”

  It was churlish of him to make such a remark. She pressed her lips together firmly, staving off a response. How dare he accost her and importune her in the library, make advances—flirt blatantly—beg her to stay, and then question her ability in her post?

  She was about to speak, defending herself, when her employer saved her the task.

  “Miss Palliser has only just joined us recently,” the Duchess of Burghly spoke up, flashing Bridget a reassuring smile.

  “Plenty of time then,” Carlisle said mildly, his stare lingering upon Bridget with a noted intensity. “Plenty of time.”

  Her cheeks went hot beneath his scrutiny from a combination of fear and embarrassment. She could not be certain if he had already received damning information concerning her true identity and was merely prodding at her like a wounded animal he would kill when he had grown bored of the game, or whether he simply enjoyed flustering her.

  The moment was severed when Mr. Ludlow motioned discreetly for the next course to be served. “If you were hungry, brother, you would have only had to speak for yourself. No one knows better than I what a bear you become when deprived of nourishment, and we cannot have that on a day of such unmitigated celebration.”

  Blessedly, Carlisle turned his attention back to Mr. Ludlow, grinning. “Today is not about me, brother dear. It is about you and your lovely bride. I wish you happy, today and every day that follows.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” said the Duchess of Burghly.

  “Yes,” her new husband agreed. “Thank you, brother.”

  Only Bridget knew that their gratitude would be short-lived. That the joy and love surrounding them was transient. That nothing good was ever meant to last. Of course it wasn’t. Not for the quality any more than it was for those who toiled in their service. For people like Bridget. Lord knew she had never known joy a day in her life. It was the coin of the wealthy, reserved for those with the time and leisure to pursue life beyond the ugly necessities of survival.

  Bridget had been born the bastard child of a hideously wealthy American and her Irish mother, a tavern wench who got lucky—or unlucky, depending upon whom one asked—and tupped a rich man one evening. The unlucky part had been that the wealthy American didn’t give a goddamn about the babe he left in a tavern whore’s belly in Ireland. He had returned home to New York, to his life of wealth and privilege, and forgot all about Bridget. She had lived her entire life scrabbling for everything—every scrap of fabric she wore, every bit of meat and bread in her belly.

  A servant delivered her a fresh goblet and poured another generous portion of wine into its waiting maw. Bridget reached for the stem, fingers clamping on it in a tight, painful grip. She raised the glass to her lips and drank. Then drank some more. For the remainder of the meal, she studiously avoided the probing, searing gaze of the Duke of Carlisle.

  The evening was dark, which suited Leo’s mood as he stalked through Harlton Hall’s gardens alone, holding the neck of a fresh whisky bottle. He had fled the company, the merrymaking, unable to stomach another moment of felicitations, smiles, and lovelorn glances between not only Clay and his bride but the other couples in attendance as well.

  His brother was married. Married and in love. In hideous, soul-draining fashion. So in love, he could not speak without grinning. Could not go half a minute without gazing adoringly at his bride or surreptitiously touching her when he thought no one else was watching.

  Leo had been watching. He watched everyone. More than he ought to, likely, but being observant was one of his many curses, along with possessing a bedeviled mind which betrayed him when he could least afford it.

  Instances such as these, when he was in charge of more covert agents than ever before, when his Special League had just absorbed an entire branch of the Home Office dedicated specially to the Fenian menace. When two public figures had been slashed to death only months before in a Dublin park. When shadows lurked at every corner, and men threatened the lives of innocent women and children.

  He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, pinching to stave off the headache threatening to claim him. Now was not the time to allow the inner beasts of his nature to roam free. The moon was full overhead, drowning out hundreds of stars glittering from the midnight depths of the sky. Most nights, even though sleep eluded him, he forgot to look, or they were blotted out by the pernicious London fog, forgotten as the dead.

  Tonight, he saw them, fighting against the silver-white moon, struggling to be seen, and they reminded him of the fragility of life. Of how cruel and fleeting it was.

  Do not drink the poison, said a voice inside him. One night was enough. Sleep another day.

  Caution and the voice could both go to hell and dwell there with the devil until Leo was ready to join them. He opened the bottle, held it to his lips for a long, steady pull. It burned a path to his gut.

  In the otherworldly sheen of the moon, Harlton Hall’s gardens appeared manicured enough. He walked a gravel path until he came upon an obelisk rising imperiously from the center, then lowered himself to the dirt like the animal he was and began to drink in truth.

  He drank away the day. Drank away his worries and cares. Memories. Guilt. Darkness. Shame. Fear. Responsibility. The whisky was a benediction, anointing his gullet with its velvet promise of momentary amnesia.

  The nuptials nonsense had been more difficult to endure than he had imagined it would be, and not because he was bitter about the wedding day he had been denied—that was old, unwanted news. But because he was an observer. He prided himself on his ability to watch others, to study them and make inferences from what he saw, to predict and dissect and understand.

  And yet no part of him could comprehend a man falling so helplessly in love with a woman he would bind himself to her eternally. Irrevocably. It was loathsome. Horrid. Terrifying. Everything he stood against. Everything he had learned was impossible.

  Thank you, Jane, for the schooling.

  He would never forget.

  Even so, Leo had done his duty. He had been coherent and present, happy for his brother, happy for his new wife, thrilled to have a nephew—in truth, he adored the lad. It was something new for him, he had to admit, enjoying the presence of a child. But the young duke—Clay’s son, though he had not been aware of his true parentage until recently—affected Leo. He slipped past his wizened, cynical skin, straight to his tender marrow.

  Yes, the lad was intelligent and kind, brave and funny, quick-witted and unafraid to challenge Leo as he had done at the w
edding breakfast. He could only silently applaud him. The dark-haired scamp, with his awkward body and his shy mannerisms, had instantly won Leo’s heart. He resembled Clay so much, it was uncanny, and Leo could not look upon him without recalling all the scrapes he and his brother had managed to get into during their youths.

  Though Clay was his half brother by nature, the only son between Leo’s father and his mistress Lily Ludlow, Leo had never been closer to another. Not even to Jane, and he supposed it was just as well, for he had not been close to Jane after all, had he? No indeed.

  Oh, Christ. Stop thinking of bloody Lady Jane Reeves.

  Leo lifted the bottle of his brother’s whisky to his lips. He was well on his way to becoming soused once more. This made two nights in a row. This meant…

  Well, fuck.

  The quiet night laden with its brilliant moon and shy stars seemed to mock him, for they reminded him of a different Jane entirely.

  A dark-haired beauty who neither looked nor sounded anything like the flaxen-haired Lady Jane. Strangely, when he thought of the lady who had once owned his heart, all he could see was blue eyes flecked with gray, fringed by long, ebony lashes.

  Why did he keep thinking about the haunting eyes of the governess? Why did he keep recalling she tasted so sweetly of bergamot, that she made a delicious, breathy sound when he kissed her? That her body had been so pliant and curved against his, so soft in all the ways a woman was meant to be? That her mouth was not only kissable, but fuckable, the kind of mouth he wanted to slide his cock inside?

  “Hell,” Leo bit into the oddly illuminated darkness. “Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. Bloody fucking, goddamn hell.”

  He could not seem to utter enough epithets to rectify the burning, forbidden need inside him. He could not swallow enough whisky to make thoughts of her disperse, though he aimed to try. He could not will away the stiffness of his cock, even now, knowing how wrong it was. The woman was his nephew’s governess. She was a glorified domestic. Untouchable.

  Why was he so drawn to her?