What Would a Duke Do?

by Collette Cameron

  Instinctively, Gabriella knew Maxwell would never be manipulated like that, but he also wouldn’t defile women. He’d force you to marry him and your grandfather to relinquish Hartfordshire Court. Ironic how her grandfather and Maxwell both used the excuse they were righting a wrong. “But the ownership of Hartfordshire was never transferred or recorded at the register’s office. How can that be?” she asked.

  “I’ll wager the nasty old duke bribed someone. A clerk or some official to forget to make the change,” Ophelia put in.

  Grandpapa nodded slowly. “Sounds like something that hell’s spawn would do. I’d have had no reason to check the recording after my initial visit, and I was assured everything was in order. It’s most unfortunate the current duke happened upon the journal and this sordidness came to light.”

  “The tax issue would’ve eventually alerted the duke.” Honestly, it was surprising Maxwell hadn’t discovered that piece of the puzzle before this. Gabriella shook her head. “What a positively monstrous mess. A monstrous, monstrous tangle. I fear we may have to hire a solicitor.” She searched her grandfather’s lined faced. “I don’t suppose there are funds for that?”

  He shifted uncomfortably, his focus sinking to his lap. “I cannot even replace the coach and team at this juncture,” he mumbled, his papery cheeks flushed with humiliation.

  “I thought not,” she acknowledged with a resigned nod. “That makes me think. I forgot to tell you the duke arranged for the repair of the coach, and he also sent word to the auction houses to be on the alert for the team.”

  Her grandfather’s regard sliced to Grandmother. “That was decent of him, but also beyond the mark.” He opened his mouth as if to declare something else, but the quelling glance his wife leveled him, silenced whatever he was about to say.

  How could they possibly hope to fight a wealthy duke in court?

  “I cannot see that it would do any good, even if we could afford a solicitor,” Ophelia ventured. “Grandpapa is correct. In circumstances like this, aristocrats always win. Justice is only for the rich and powerful.”

  What about the court of public opinion? The elitist circles Maxwell traveled in? What would the haut ton make of these juicy tidbits? Could Gabriella spin the facts and make the Dukes of Penningtons the villains and the Breckensoles the victims?

  Probably, but the disgrace would ruin her family. What was more, le beau monde, didn’t give a fig about commoners being rode roughshod over by some pompous duke. Peers were exonerated of crimes all the time with no more than a bored blink from their aristocratic compatriots.

  “But if the duke thinks we’ll make a public scandal of it, a reeking royal stink, that may well do the trick,” Ophelia offered hopefully.

  Gabriella could well imagine how her twin would affect that. Hadn’t she suggested poisoning the duke in jest?

  Maxwell had been most adamant he wanted to avoid any on dit. But such a scandal would reveal Grandmama’s humiliation and likely settle Ophelia and Gabriella firmly on the shelf.

  Besides, this was becoming a vicious cycle of extortion and retribution, and it didn’t sit well with her. When would it end? She’d like to believe she and her family were above such ugliness. Maxwell too. In truth she objected more to the means by which she would be compelled to marry him than any personal objection to him.

  “There is a way…” Grandmama hesitated, her mouth pressed into a tight line. “I possess something that may well do the trick.”

  A sick feeling cramped Gabriella’s stomach, and she closed her eyes for a blink.

  “What’s this?” Grandpapa asked, wrinkling his forehead and probing her with his gaze. “You’ve kept a secret from me, Irene?”

  “I have. Because the duchess was a sweet, gentle woman, forced into a marriage with a man old enough to be her grandfather. I always pitied her.” She dropped her focus to her hands where she tormented the poor handkerchief. “The sixth duke,” she continued softly, “beat and violated the poor woman. I cannot tell you how many times I cared for a split lip and helped her to dress to cover the bruises he inflicted upon her. The brute carried on with whores in the chamber adjoining hers. Even made her watch sometimes.”

  Gabriella put her palms to her churning stomach and swallowed, so sickened, she truly feared she’d cast up her accounts. Maxwell’s grandfather had truly been evil, but to blackmail him in turn? It wasn’t right.

  “That’s why she loved Hartfordshire Court so much.” As Grandmama relived the events that had transpired so many years ago, her gaze went vacant again. “It was where she escaped from him and his string of strumpets. When she learned he attacked me, she’d had enough. She planned to leave him.”

  Grandpapa and Ophelia regarded her with expectation, and Gabriella wished herself anywhere else. As furious as she was with Maxwell, she didn’t want to be a part of any scheme that inflicted harm upon him.

  “You see, the duchess despised her husband, and she had a lover. I helped her arrange meetings with him.” A defiant glint entered Grandmama’s eyes. “I don’t regret it. That poor woman deserved some small measure of happiness. I swore I’d never breathe a word, but her lover was the seventh duke’s father.”

  Max turned on his heel, a cheroot gripped between his thumb and forefinger, and circled the flagstone terrace at the rear of Chartworth Hall once more. In the hours since he’d watched Gabriella—proud and magnificent as any Amazonian warrior—run away from him, taking his heart and his self-respect with her, he’d been deep in soul-searching contemplation.

  Not a particularly religious man, he’d nonetheless sent several prayers skyward asking for guidance. For the ability to forgive. To know what course to take.

  What had seemed just and fair a few months ago, even a few days ago, had faded into ambiguity with the knowledge he’d wounded her. Unforgivably.

  You’ve taken up someone else’s offense as your own.

  I shall grow to hate you.

  I could have loved you, Maxwell.

  He took a long draw of the cheroot, then with a grimace tossed it to the pavers, crushing it rather viciously beneath his boot heel. He’d all but given up smoking straight out of university. He rarely indulged anymore, but this hellish day had sent him in search of a smoke, only to have him realize after two brief puffs he really couldn’t abide the smell and taste. Another example of the many idiotic things men did just because someone, somewhere, at some time, thought it a splendid idea.

  A bloody, disgusting idea.

  Scraping a hand through his hair, not caring the least the disheveled strands would likely send his valet, Filby, into an apoplexy, Max brought his gaze up to survey the manicured lawns. Topiary hedges enclosed immaculately groomed gardens. Blossoms had begun to form on the early blooming flowers and trees, and soon their fragrance would perfume the air.

  He rarely stayed at Chartworth, the memories of a lonely childhood, austere and frightened servants, a mean-spirited and perpetually soused grandfather, and a neglectful father were enough to keep him away. He’d often considered letting the estate, so he’d not be obligated to oversee it any longer.

  Thank God he’d been sent to boarding school before his eighth birthday. It—and the life-long friends he’d made there, had been his saving grace. Visits home had been infrequent, dreaded, and in later years avoided. But Max had often enjoyed school breaks with other young scamps, mainly because his sire, quite frankly, didn’t give a damn where he spent the holidays or summers.

  He rested a hip on the elaborate balustrade while squinting into the cloudless azure sky. An unusually brilliant day for early spring in the English countryside. Beyond the hedgerow, a classic white marble garden arbor’s domed roof peeked above the lavender, purple and cream lilacs and the crimson, fuchsia, and white camellias planted by his mother.

  Another severely unhappy duchess.

  Had any Duchess of Pennington ever been happy and content? Truly, wholly happy? Had a duke ever been? Not even he, renowned for his droll humor and te
asing witticisms?

  Gabriella deserved happiness.

  Who was he to rob her of any chance of it?

  A selfish, bastard. That was who. He’d known that all along, so why did he suddenly care?

  A pair of accusing hazel eyes framed by lush lashes, momentarily blinded him.

  It all came down to Gabriella Breckensole. She’d handily taken his well-thought out plans, and pitched them arse over noggin. What’s more, he didn’t mind nearly as much as he ought.

  A slight smile quirked his mouth, and a peculiar urge to run and conceal himself in the arbor as he had as a youth gripped him. Within the stately columns, elaborate marble benches had provided the perfect backdrop for an errant boy to read his favorite books, pretend he slayed dragons and other mythical creatures, or simply hide from his latest starchy tutor or sot of a father when he’d been in his cups.

  Which was most of the time.

  Max’s focus gravitated over the greens. He owned this. These thousands of acres. As had his father before him and his grandfather before him, and the previous generations of Pennington dukes too. Money and position and power accompanied the title, as did expectations and obligations. Max claimed all of this as his, and yet, he begrudged a simple man a few acres and the house it stood upon.

  No, it is the means by which Breckensole acquired the estate I object to.

  Over the decades, had his forebearers committed equally unjust crimes? One ancestor—his two times great-grandfather?— married five, increasingly younger heiresses with the sole purpose of expanding his holdings. It was rumored that not all of his duchesses had met with natural deaths.

  Max roved his gaze over his lands again. Everything within his sight bespoke wealth and quality. Yet, never had Chartworth Hall felt less like a home. Never had the opulent halls and rooms rung more emptily. Never, ever, had he felt this lonely and hollow aching for what he’d unlikely ever have. Love. The love of a woman like Gabriella.

  Who did he think he fooled? Certainly not himself. Not a woman like her. Her. Gabriella Fern Miriam Breckensole. He yearned for her love. Freely and willingly and wholeheartedly given.

  His attention shifted to the east, toward Hartfordshire Court. He’d dine there in less than two hours. Afterward, he’d present Breckensole with the evidence that ensured the older man’s ruination and thereby, guaranteed his cooperation. Only then would he explain his terms. Conditions which, he hadn’t a doubt for a moment, she’d already informed her grandfather of.

  The old curmudgeon would agree; after a bit of posturing and grumbling for his pride’s sake.

  Victory was within Max’s grasp. He’d all but won. So why didn’t exultation thrum through his veins? Instead, his mouth tasted acrid and bitter, and a peculiar sense of having failed in some vital way beat relentlessly against his self-respect.

  Men at some time are masters of their fates.

  Another damnable quote from Shakespeare. Of all the incongruous thoughts to invade his musings. For God’s sake. He didn’t even particularly like Shakespeare and for certain hadn’t made an effort to memorize the bard’s poems. He’d found the plays and sonnets tedious at best and when compelled to watch a theatrical performance of one or the other, often could barely keep his eyes open or suppress his bored yawns.

  Men at some time are masters of their fates.

  Was he? Could he be? Must he follow the less than praiseworthy footsteps of his ancestors? Did what had come before truly have to mold him into a callous, cold-hearted blackguard no better than the previous dukes of Pennington?

  Or…could he be the one who initiated change?

  If he forgave Breckensole his offense and debt, the duchy wouldn’t suffer one way or the other from his decision. The dukedom, unlike many others, had plodded along quite nicely these past decades, despite the despicable dukes born into its prestigious lineage.

  But the Breckensoles would suffer tremendously if he persisted. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted?

  Not anymore. Gabriella’s happiness mattered more than all else.

  More than Father? Grandfather? Revenge?

  He chuckled, lifting his face to the sky. Yes. Hell, yes! A thousand times more.

  She was all that was good and decent and wonderful. Her radiant smile lit the room and shadows descended, cloying and heavy, upon his soul when she departed his presence. Could this, whatever this unfamiliar feeling heating his blood and causing his heart to beat an uneven cadence, be love? Could he, the offspring of generations of unfeeling bastards, actually be capable of love?

  As Max strode indoors and climbed the risers to his rooms, his internal battle raged on.

  Forgive and forget?

  Punish and demand restitution?

  Could he forsake the duty to his family for something as wholly selfish as love for a woman who could scarcely stand to look upon his face?

  Ah, but Gabriella had kissed him. More than once. Willingly and passionately, so she must’ve felt something toward him, if only desire. She wasn’t a flirt nor fast, and she’d succumbed with a fervor that had startled but pleased him.

  He needn’t peer into a looking glass to know a satisfied grin curved his mouth.

  Pausing along the second-floor gallery, he swept his gaze over the very first duke of Pennington’s portrait. Complete with a neat black beard, a high-necked doublet under a dark blue and gold brocade overgown, and accented by a gaudily jeweled collar—a truly heinous thing, actually—his forefather stared back at him with haughty arrogance.

  Prideful lot were the Dukes of Pennington. God only knew how many bastards these dukes had sired over the generations. As was typical of all the Dukes of Pennington, the first duke wore a solemn expression.

  Mayhap they all had bad teeth? He ran his tongue over his own teeth, all straight except for one slightly crooked lower tooth. He faithfully cleansed them twice daily.

  Hands clasped behind him, he slowly meandered the length of the carpeted corridor, his head slanted in concentration. He studied the serious faces of his ancestors, none particularly handsome, save his sire. His father bore classical striking features: a straight blade of a nose, a high forehead, sculpted cheeks and jaw, and dark hair that women seemed to find deucedly attractive.

  Max didn’t include himself in that category.

  His face was far too angular, his nose slightly too large with a distinct hump, and his different colored eyes had always vexed him. Not that he minded them all that much when he glanced into the cheval glass, but others seemed to find them wholly unnerving or intriguing, depending upon who the observer might happen to be.

  Gabriella, he realized with a small start, had never made him self-conscious about the abnormality. Many were the times she’d looked deeply into his eyes, and not once had there been even the merest flicker in hers. But then, that was so like her. To accept people as they were, without judgment or prejudice. To see the good in them.

  He suspected he could’ve had a gross facial disfigurement, and she’d have treated him with courtesy and kindness, nary a flinch marring her comportment.

  When he at last stood before his grandfather’s and father’s portraits, he straightened, and with a critical eye, narrowed his gaze. They bore little resemblance to one another, except in attitude, behavior, and speech. Actually, that wasn’t quite true either.

  At one time, his father had wanted to pursue a military career. The navy to be precise. Max had learned of that desire during one of his father’s intoxicated rants. Naturally, as the only heir, he was forbidden any such thing. He’d also been forbidden to wed the woman he loved. She’d been far beneath his station.

  Max had concluded as a young lad that his father was a weak man, compelled to become something he didn’t have the character or fortitude for.

  He glanced back down the row of austere ancestors in their gilded frames.

  By damn.

  When he sat for his portrait, he was going to grin as wide as a cat in the cream, even if it meant he appeared half mad.
He wouldn’t pose as a somber-faced wretch looking as if death or the pox or the plague was about to descend upon him.

  Except…He unclasped his hands and leaned forward. One arm bent across his waist, the elbow of the other resting upon his forearm, he cradled his chin between his finger. Except, if he continued along this course, determined to destroy Breckensole, would he have reason to smile ever again?

  His vivacious Gabriella would be destroyed in the process. In that moment, the pain in his heart crested, writhing with such severity, he gasped and clutched both hands to his chest.

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t exact his revenge. Not out of any misplaced mercy or grace directed toward Breckensole. Gabriella, his sweet, unpredictable, vexing Gabriella had stopped him as surely as if a royal decree had been issued.

  Max loved her, and love forgave a multitude of sins. None of the other signified. It was as if he was able to finally see clearly. What mattered most was that he not destroy that incredible, remarkable, beyond comparison woman.

  Pennington duty and honor could burn in the seventh layer of hell’s flames, which he strongly suspected, a few of these very same ancestors might very well be doing at this moment.

  He, by God above, would not further blacken the dukedom with misplaced revenge.

  Gabriella had reason to hate him. He’d given her every reason to. But he would not force her into a union she didn’t want. That much he could do.

  At once, as if heavy binding chains had been removed, a weight lifted from him. Melted off like a candle held to a fire. He laughed out loud, causing a passing chambermaid to give him a queer look and scuttle past him a mite faster.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d do about the tax situation, but Breckensole could keep Hartfordshire Court and Max would never make a claim against the estate again. He’d inform the Breckensoles of his decision at dinner. Then tomorrow, he’d be straight for London. For staying in the vicinity, with Gabriella so close but utterly and forever unattainable was unbearable. Even for a hard-hearted Duke of Pennington.