The Return of the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  “’Ave a care…” Sam panted.

  “Just hold steady another second.”

  With great concentration, she stood up, her stockinged toes curling on Sam’s shoulders. He dropped the sack, his hands gripping her ankles for extra support.

  “Almost there,” she said.

  Triumph surged through her as her fingertips touched the fruit…then Sam lost his balance, jerking forward. With a shriek, she tumbled through the air, bracing for impact, but strong arms caught her, holding her against a large, hard, and achingly familiar chest.

  Breathless, stunned, she stared into her husband’s eyes.

  36

  As Severin gazed into his beloved’s face, a tide of relief and yearning crashed over him. After a week of desperate searching, he had found her. She was safe in his arms and everything he had ever wanted.

  “Fancy.” Her name left him in a hoarse whisper. Love and desire robbed him of thought, drove his lips toward hers—

  She shoved at his chest, nearly causing him to drop her. He managed to hold on, settling her safely on her feet. The moment she had her balance, she struggled against his embrace, and he let her go. Not because he wanted to, but because he knew she had every right to push him away.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  With her eyes sparkling with anger and plaits disheveled, she had never looked more beautiful to him. He ached with love and remorse, with the primal need to drag her into his arms and hold her there forever.

  “I am here for you,” he said.

  Her brothers and Sam Taylor gathered in a protective ring.

  Taylor glared at him. “You want us to take care o’ this bounder for you, Fancy?”

  Severin curled his hands. How dare the bastard presume to protect her? Fancy was his—and he would be the one looking after her. Even if he had to fall to his knees and grovel for the privilege. Knowing that his wife would not appreciate him pummeling Taylor, Severin reined in his jealous fury.

  “Fancy, may I please speak with you alone?” he asked tautly.

  Her brother Liam crossed his arms. “We’re not leaving her with you.”

  “Me sister travelled by ’erself for a week to get away from you,” Oliver snarled. “What kind o’ ’usband lets ’is wife do that?”

  “Or makes ’er cry ’erself to sleep?” Tommy twisted the knife.

  “Hush,” Fancy said, her cheeks pink.

  Self-recrimination roiling in his gut, Severin said in a low voice, “I know I’ve been a bastard, Fancy, and I have no excuse. But there are things I would like to tell you…things I’ve only just realized. Please will you give me a chance to explain?”

  The doubt in Fancy’s eyes punched him in the gut, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  What if it is too late? What if she can’t forgive me for not knowing my own heart?

  He held his breath, awaiting her answer. Agonizing moments passed.

  “All right,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Fancy led the way to the back of the orchard. Her emotions were tangled skeins, like yarn tossed in a basket. She didn’t know where one feeling started and another ended, whether she was angry, irritated, or hopeful. She felt Knight’s presence behind her, his pulsing masculine energy.

  Why did he come after me? she thought. Is it out of obligation…or something else?

  Arriving at the fence that marked the end of the grove, she turned to face her husband. Sunshine filtered through the leafy canopy, light and shadow playing across his stark features. His grey eyes burned into hers with breath-disrupting intensity.

  “How did you find me?” she managed.

  “Bertrand.”

  She blinked.

  “The damned donkey led me to your family’s campground,” Knight clarified. “It was Toby’s idea. He said donkeys have an excellent memory and sense of direction and turns out he’s right.”

  Exhaling, she asked, “Why did you come after me?”

  “Because you are my wife, and I love you,” he said steadily.

  Shock percolated through her. How she had yearned to hear those words…yet now she couldn’t believe them. Not after what she’d seen.

  She lifted her chin. “You have never lied to me. There is no need to start now.”

  “I’m not lying.” Squaring his shoulders, he said, “I understand why you might think so—”

  “I saw you with Imogen,” she said scathingly. “At Princess Adelaide’s salon.”

  He didn’t flinch at her accusation. “What did you think you saw?”

  “I know what I saw. On the balcony, you were…kissing her,” she said, her voice hitching.

  The fact that he didn’t deny it brought her anger from simmering to a full boil.

  “Do you know what I have finally realized?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “I may not be a lady or a proper duchess and I don’t give a blooming farthing. I am a tinker’s daughter, and I’m proud of it. When I married you, I tried to fix myself up. To make myself into the duchess you wanted. But it didn’t work, did it? I’m still Fancy Sheridan, a woman who can mend most things, but I can’t mend your heart. I’m tired of trying and, what is more, it isn’t my job. I deserve better than to be second best, the woman you settled for. I deserve better than a made-over marriage and my husband’s hand-me-down heart. I want my faerie tale ending, and I won’t settle for less!”

  She hadn’t meant to shout. But once uncorked, her bottled-up emotions burst from her.

  “I know.” By contrast, Knight’s voice was soft and low. “All of that is true. You deserve better than me, sweeting, I have always known that. But make no mistake: I am not letting you go.”

  “Because of the scandal?” she asked bitterly. “No one will care. In fact, they’ll think we’re proper blue-bloods if we live separate lives. You and Imogen can carry on however you like, and I’ll do the same—”

  “The hell you will. And devil take Imogen.” He took a step forward, his hands closing around her arms, his eyes smoldering into hers. “You’re mine, Fancy.”

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “Never. You are the best thing that has happened to me, and I am never letting you go.”

  His ardent declaration, raw with emotion, startled her into silence.

  “I have made so many mistakes with you,” he said tightly. “Too many to count. But the one I will not make is losing you, the woman I love, who taught me what love is.”

  Her heart seemed to stop at his words.

  “You don’t love me.” She forced the words through her cinched throat. “You love her…Imogen. You always have, and you always will.”

  “No.” He shook his head with vehemence. “I don’t love her.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she cried. “I saw you kissing her.”

  “What you saw was Imogen taking me off guard. It’s true, she sought me out that night at the soiree. She said she had something urgent she needed to talk about. I shouldn’t have gone to the balcony with her, but she seemed desperate. Like she needed my help.” Knight dragged a hand through his hair. “Once we were out there, she threw herself at me.”

  Pain lanced through Fancy. “So you did kiss her.”

  “Not on purpose. I didn’t realize what she meant to do.” His eyes were fierce yet imploring. “When she kissed me, I froze. Because I didn’t expect it…and because I felt nothing. I ended the kiss an instant after.”

  “I don’t know why you would when you’ve saved your kisses for her for so long.”

  “Because I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said hoarsely.

  “Oh, really?” She crossed her arms, unwilling to open herself up to more pain. “When did that magical moment happen?”

  “Probably from the moment I laid eyes on you arguing with that damned donkey.” At her look of disbelief, he amended, “I knew that I wanted you then. That I’d never felt such a strong physical attraction to a female before.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Lus
t isn’t the same as love.”

  “It wasn’t just lust I felt for you, but the lust was there. So much so that it blinded me to everything else I was feeling.” He exhaled. “I think that was why I was confused.”

  “You were quite clear when you proposed. You love Imogen. You were willing to settle for me because you’d compromised me,” she said flatly. “And because we’re compatible between the sheets.”

  “I’m an idiot.” Remorse thickened his voice, his gaze pleading. “Fancy, I had no idea what love was before I met you. When I met Imogen, I was fifteen. I thought I loved her, but it was the immature infatuation of a boy who saw only her beauty, the life of privilege she led, and wanted it for himself. I’ve come to realize some things. Truths I had kept buried because they were unsavory. I’ve never shared them with anyone, but I would like to with you, if you would give me the chance.”

  The roughness of his voice betrayed his agitation. It wasn’t easy for him to say what he was saying. Despite her hurt, she felt herself softening toward him.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I now understand that I put Imogen on a pedestal, used her as motivation to lift myself out of poverty, the miserable conditions of my life. Everything around me was dark, filthy, and brutal. You know my maman was a seamstress but what I didn’t tell you was that she was also…a whore.”

  Seeing the anguish in Knight’s eyes, Fancy felt her anger begin to ebb. His large frame was braced as if he were confronting an army of demons, and she couldn’t let him do it alone. Slowly, she reached out a hand to him, and he took it, gripping it like a lifeline.

  “I was eight when I realized how she truly earned our keep. I thought we’d been surviving on the piecework she did. I never questioned why she went out at night, wearing paint, a tawdry dress.” His voice had a serrated edge. “There were times she came back with bruises on her face, a horrible blank look in her eyes, and I would ask her why. And all she would say was that she’d had an accident.”

  “Oh, Knight.” Fancy didn’t know what else to say.

  “When one of my friends enlightened me on my mama’s true profession, I bloodied his nose then foolishly demanded to know the truth from her. Do you know what she said?”

  “What?” Fancy asked softly.

  “Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t be blinded by desire, she said. When you find yourself a woman, treat her like a true gentleman, like a knight who would never forsake his lady.” His throat worked above his cravat. “I didn’t understand then that she was talking about my father who had abandoned her, stripped her of everything little by little. First her youthful dreams, then her hope, then finally even her physical dignity.”

  “Yet she never lost her strength,” Fancy whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your mama endured so much, yet she kept fighting to survive. And she never lost hope in you, Knight: she believed that you could be the gentleman your father never was.”

  “I have never thought of it that way,” he said gruffly. “I only knew that I had failed her. Failed to protect her, to provide for us so that she wouldn’t have to suffer indignities. I tried to help. I turned to what most boys my age could do in the stews: pickpocketing, petty theft. But whenever I managed to bring home a loaf of bread, a stolen purse, my maman…” He swallowed. “She would look at me with such disappointment in her eyes. And I knew what she was thinking. Knew that she wished I could be more. Then I saved Imogen, and for the first time in my life, I felt like…”

  “A hero?” Fancy said with understanding.

  He nodded jerkily. “It was a powerful feeling, knowing that I could be more than a sticky-fingered guttersnipe. That I could rise above my origins. I wanted so badly to be a gentleman who would make my maman proud and who could win a well-bred lady’s heart.”

  “You are a gentleman.” Then, as much as it hurt her to say it, “And you have won Imogen’s heart.”

  “Imogen doesn’t love me, and I don’t love her.” He grasped her hands in a powerful grip. “I was infatuated with Imogen, idealized her, but I never knew her. And she never knew me.”

  Fancy furrowed her brow. “How could you not know each other after all these years?”

  “Because she wanted a champion, I wanted to be a champion, and that was all we really had in common. We never talked about anything of substance,” he said, his expression earnest. “Imogen has delicate sensibilities, and I never shared my problems, the darkness in my life, for fear of upsetting her. And she, in turn, was always a proper lady, never saying or doing anything impolite.”

  Heat prickled Fancy’s cheeks as she thought of the things she and Knight had talked about. The impolite things they’d said and done in the heat of passion. Embarrassed, she tried to pull away but Knight held on.

  “But you…you’re real, Fancy,” he said urgently. “A blood-and-flesh woman who isn’t afraid of feelings or unpleasantness. Who isn’t disgusted by the man I am beneath the polish and trappings of wealth.”

  “Why would I be disgusted by you?” she asked in a suffocated voice. “You are a man of honor, one who has survived on his own merits. You’ve made something of yourself, risen above the darkness that could have consumed you, and that isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

  “I adore that you see the best in everyone, sweeting…even in me, when I don’t deserve it.” His eyes burned with desperate intensity. “Your warmth and generosity are unlike anything I’ve known. For so long, I had fooled myself into thinking love was something pure and unattainable. That is why I didn’t recognize the gift you gave me: love, real love, the kind that not only survives darkness but grows stronger because of it. The kind that lasts forever and beyond. That is what I feel for you, Fancy—my duchess, my wife, the only woman I have truly loved.”

  Emotion clogged her throat. He was saying the things that had filled her dreams. She wanted to believe him…but she flashed to that scene on the balcony, the shattering anguish of seeing Imogen in his arms. How could she trust that he loved her, that he wasn’t simply settling for the consolation prize?

  She pulled away, and he let her, his gaze following her keenly.

  “If that is the case, why did seeing Imogen at Maggie’s ball affect you so?” When his brows knitted, she said, “After that night, you became distant. You didn’t come to my bed, and then when I sought you out…” She bit her lip, humiliation throbbing like a deep-seated splinter. “I told you I loved you, and you…rebuffed me.”

  “I was a bastard.” Self-condemnation hardened his voice. “There is no excuse for how I treated you, and I cannot tell you how sorry I am. But you’re wrong about one thing: it wasn’t Imogen who triggered my mood—it was Anna Smith.”

  “But…why?” She tilted her head. “At that point, the danger was over. Shouldn’t you have been happy or relieved at the very least?”

  “I was relieved that the danger to you was over.” Shadows deepened in his eyes. “But when I went to see Anna Smith, it brought back the memories of visiting my maman…in Bedlam.”

  At the revelation, Fancy stilled. London’s infamous Bethlehem Hospital, commonly known as Bedlam, was an asylum for the insane.

  “Your mother was ill?” Fancy said carefully.

  “She didn’t start off that way.” His voice was gritty. “According to the mad-doctor, it was the gin that did it to her. My maman, she drank a lot. Not during my earliest years; I remember a time when her eyes and mind were clear. But when she started selling herself to support us, it changed her. She was a passionate woman, my mother, and doing something so contrary to her wishes and sense of dignity destroyed her. She had to find some way to numb herself…and blue ruin was her answer.”

  “Your poor mama,” Fancy said achingly.

  “She was a loving mother, but when she drank, she became a different person. I was twelve when she started hallucinating. Hearing and seeing things that were not there. When I tried to tell he
r it was just her imagination, she would grow distraught, and a few times she forgot who I was, thought I was trying to harm her. And she…she attacked me. One time, she chased me into the street with a knife. I should have gotten out of the way, but I wasn’t fast enough. She stabbed me, left the scar near my heart.”

  Unable to bear the rawness of her husband’s pain, Fancy went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

  His arms circled her like iron bands. “She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  “Of course she didn’t.” Fancy held him with all her strength. “She was not herself.”

  “After that time, the authorities took her away. For years, I visited her in Bedlam, and seeing her suffering, how she was treated...” His voice was muffled against her hair. “There was nothing I could do to help her. I was glad when she died, glad that her torment was finally over. When I went to see Anna Smith, being in the asylum brought everything back.”

  Fancy stroked his back. “I understand.”

  Because now she did. Knight hadn’t been brooding over Imogen; he had been reliving the horrors of his youth. She had the sudden insight that this was the root of his infatuation with Imogen: was it any wonder that he would seek a pure, untouchable love when the real love he’d experienced had been so full of darkness and pain?

  He drew back to look at her but did not loosen his hold.

  “I should not have made love to you that night,” he said roughly. “In the mood that I was in, I should have stayed away. When you told me you loved me, I…panicked. And I don’t even know why. Because I love you, Fancy, I do.”

  “I think I understand.” She touched his jaw, his tension trembling through her. “Love hasn’t been easy, has it? Maybe passion and lust felt safer.”

  She saw recognition fork through his eyes like lightning.

  “I have come to realize that I made that vow to Imogen not for her sake, but my own,” he said slowly. “Giving her that vow made me feel like I had left my past behind, and it shielded me from having to feel the darker side, the painful side of truly loving someone.”