A Duke Will Never Do

by Burke, Darcy

  “My deepest apologies,” he said, bowing to Jane. “When I think of what was stolen from you, from us…”

  Jane nodded as a tangle of emotions gathered in her throat. But then just one overruled them all. She smiled at Lord Rockbourne. “As it happens, I think I was given a gift—one that took a few years to come to fruition, but one that is greater than anything I could have hoped for.” Indeed, she felt sorrier for Rockbourne and his current situation than she ever could for herself.

  The viscount turned and went back to his wife. Taking her arm, he escorted her from the church with alacrity.

  Papa put his arm around Mama, and they returned to the room at the back of the sanctuary, leaving Jane and Anne to deal with the repercussions of what had just occurred.

  Anne lifted her voice. “Clearly, there will be no wedding. Nor will there be a wedding breakfast.” She glanced at Jane, then added, smiling at everyone, “Thank you for coming.”

  Jane nearly laughed at the absurdity of her last statement. Then she realized she wanted to say something too. Addressing the guests, she said, “I trust none of you will hold this against my sister. Miss Anne Pemberton is blameless in all this—her reputation must not be maligned.”

  “And neither must Jane’s,” Anne said, sliding a mischievous look toward Jane. “Society owes her an apology for believing a vicious lie.”

  “Hear, hear!” someone called, and Jane realized it was Phoebe. She stood at the back of the sanctuary with her husband.

  Jane laughed softly, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as tears began to streak down her cheeks. Anne put her arm around her. “Don’t cry, Jane. This has all turned out marvelously. For both of us.”

  Jane turned to her sister, wiping her cheeks. “Don’t you see? It hasn’t turned out well at all. The man I love has ruined himself. Worse than that, he’s faced his demons, and no one is there to keep him safe and whole.” Heart racing, Jane hugged her sister hard and fast. “I have to go.”

  Anne nodded. “I hope he knows what he has in you.”

  “I hope so too.”

  * * *

  Arriving home from St. George’s, Anthony went straight to his study, intent on pouring a glass of whatever he grabbed first. Before he could get there, Purcell intercepted him with a letter. “This just arrived for you, my lord.”

  Sarah’s handwriting leapt out at Anthony from the missive. He went into the study and sat down near the hearth. Tearing open the parchment, he read the contents slowly, and even smiled at one point. The end, however, chilled him to his core.

  I do hope you’ll come visit. I am desperate for you to meet Marianne. Won’t you be going to Oaklands soon? Please write when you can.

  Anthony hadn’t been home to Oaklands since last summer. The journey had nearly broken him. Just taking the road on which his parents had been murdered had sent him into a spiral of abject sorrow and anger. He honestly didn’t know when he would return.

  He could visit Sarah and Felix and meet Marianne at Stag’s Court. While it was somewhat near Oaklands, he could get there via an alternate route. It would take longer, but that was a small—and perhaps necessary—price to pay.

  Why not take that route to Oaklands?

  Anthony wanted to rail at the voice in his head. Stag’s Court didn’t remind him of his parents, nor were they buried there.

  His mind did the unthinkable—it traveled the route his parents had taken. He imagined them in their coach, which he’d had destroyed after their deaths, enjoying their journey. Or not. Perhaps they’d spent the ride from London discussing their chagrin with Anthony. From his gambling debts to his failure to take a wife to his refusal to go to Oaklands to deal with estate matters, he’d utterly disappointed them.

  What had they done when the highwayman had overtaken them? The villain had shot the coachman, rendering him unconscious but not dead, and the poor man hadn’t remembered a thing about the event. Anthony had sent him into retirement with a hefty purse.

  Closing his eyes, Anthony let his imagination take over as he hadn’t done in quite some time. He thought of his mother, with her blue-gray eyes that could be cool and exacting, but then warm and caring. And his father, with features that were very near Anthony’s own. Sometimes, when he looked in the glass, he saw his father. In those moments, he never failed to look away.

  Had the highwayman told them why he was there? That his purpose was to intimidate Anthony into paying his debt? His father had been aware of it, because he’d refused to give Anthony the funds to cover it. When Anthony thought of what must have gone through his father’s mind in those moments…

  Had he been shot first or had it been his mother? He hoped it was her, because he didn’t like to think of her horror if she’d seen her husband shot first. But then he thought of his father witnessing his wife’s death—if she’d died immediately—and pain seared through Anthony’s midsection.

  What if they hadn’t died right away? Or what if one had and the other’s life had slowly slipped away? What if one had held the other as they passed? The scenarios played over and over in his mind until he feared he would go mad. If he wasn’t already.

  With an anguished cry, he crumpled his sister’s letter and threw it into the hearth. His body shaking, he stood and violently shoved everything off the mantel. Then he went to his desk and did the same. Chest heaving, he looked at the sideboard and battled with whether to break everything on it or drink every last drop. While the former would be most satisfying at present, the latter was the smarter decision. He hadn’t plunged himself this deep into hell in a long time—because he’d kept himself numb. And that was far preferable to this.

  He stalked to the sideboard and reached for a decanter.

  “Anthony, don’t.”

  Her voice was a balm that should have soothed him. But after what had happened at the church—no, after what he’d done to her before that—her presence only drove him deeper into despair.

  He turned, his hand on the decanter. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low and raw, and just looking at her beauty in the den of his own ugliness hurt.

  Jane came into the study, closing the door behind her. She slowly removed her hat and then her gloves, setting them on the chair he’d vacated. She looked around at the mess he’d made, but didn’t say a word. At least not about that.

  She inclined her head toward the sideboard. “Do you want to be numb, or do you want to feel? I prefer feeling, because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t love you, and that is absolutely unconscionable to me.”

  The storm inside him crested. “You can’t love me. I told you not to.”

  “Actually, you said you wouldn’t love me.” Her tone was even, not at all what he wanted. He wanted her anger, her disappointment, her hatred. Didn’t he deserve all that? Hadn’t he earned it? “I never promised not to fall in love with you.”

  Anthony gripped the decanter but didn’t lift it. “Numbness is easier.”

  She sauntered toward him, her head dipping gently to the right. “That is probably true, but is it better than feeling? It certainly isn’t better than love.”

  He let go of the decanter and pivoted to face her, lunging toward her as rage poured through him. “Love comes with pain and disappointment! It is the ultimate misery. I don’t want any part of it, Jane. I can’t.” He collapsed, and he had to reach behind him to grasp the sideboard to keep from falling. “I can’t.”

  She rushed forward, putting one hand on his waist and the other against his cheek. Her touch blistered him, reminding him that he did feel, even if he didn’t want to. “Yes, love can hurt, but isn’t it worth the pain? It is to me,” she said softly.

  Unable to hold himself up any longer, he dropped to his knees before her. He put his hand over hers on his cheek and clasped her hip. He stared up at her as emotion flooded him.

  “Yes, I would rather feel,” he rasped. “I can’t seem to stop feeling. And it’s all because of you. For you.” His fingers dug into her. “I love you so
damned much.”

  She smiled down at him, and with her thumb, wiped away a tear snaking down his cheek. “I thought you might. I hoped you might.”

  “I didn’t want to. At all. And I really don’t want you to love me.” He pulled her hand from his face and clutched it tightly. “I don’t deserve you, Jane.”

  “I disagree, and anyway, love is not about what we deserve. We don’t choose whom we love, or maybe we do, because I choose you.” She squeezed his hand, her gaze warm with love. “We agreed to move forward together, and I’m still here, ready to do that. You and me.”

  The light she always brought to him seemed brighter suddenly, or the darkness less. The pain inside him contracted, leaving a tightness in its wake. But also a thread of hope.

  He kissed her hand and let her go. Rising to his feet, he wiped his hands over his face. The tears had stopped, and he felt a steadying calm.

  “I want that,” he said quietly. “I want you. But, I need to be sure I’m worth it. I’m not—not yet.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said simply, her mouth pulling into a small smile.

  He nodded. “I’ll try not to make it too long.”

  “However long it takes, I’m not going anywhere.” She turned and went to fetch her accessories. “You know where to find me.”

  Then she left.

  Anthony drew a deep, shuddering breath. He glanced toward the sideboard, but didn’t move. The calm she’d brought to him remained.

  He began to tidy the room, replacing the things he’d knocked down and arranging them neatly. When he was finished, he sat at his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment.

  Inking a quill, he thought for a moment. Then he began to write to his sister, to tell her everything she needed to know. It would have been better to do it in person. Better still if he’d told her long ago. She deserved the truth, and Jane was right—Sarah was strong. Far stronger than he was.

  As the quill scratched across the page, emotion drained from him. When he was finished, he sat back, feeling better than he had in some time.

  He wasn’t whole—not by a great measure—but for the first time, he imagined it was possible.

  Chapter 17

  The sun beat warm on Jane’s shoulders as she sat in the garden. Lemonade and a stack of correspondence sat on a small table to her left. She watched Daffodil and Fern chase insects and bat at flowers, but not even their antics could lift her spirits.

  It had been a week since Anne’s aborted wedding and since she’d seen Anthony. He hadn’t said how long he needed, and while she didn’t want to press him, the longer he took, the more worried she became.

  Was he all right? Had he spiraled back into self-loathing? Was he even in London?

  He hadn’t been seen—that much had been noted. Society was abuzz with the events of Anne’s wedding: Anthony’s revelations, Chamberlain’s arrest, the old rumor about Jane.

  In fact, Jane had received several notes of support regarding the rumor. Only a few had contained actual apologies, and slightly more were actual invitations. Still, Jane wasn’t sure if the latter were due to awareness that she’d been the victim of a false rumor or because Lady Satterfield had made it clear she was a staunch supporter of Jane’s. She’d called the day after the wedding, and she’d invited Jane to call, which Jane had done two days prior.

  After Chamberlain was arrested, several other people had come forward to say he’d also extorted them over the years. It even looked as though he would be transported to Australia for his crimes. Jane thought it a fitting sentence.

  As for Anthony, she missed him dreadfully. It took every fiber of strength she possessed not to go to his house, if only to inquire after his welfare. She hadn’t even sent a note.

  Oh, she’d written several. They sat in a stack on her desk in the sitting room outside her bedchamber. Perhaps today, she’d send one.

  Daffodil leapt after a butterfly and crashed into her sister, who had done the same. They fell to the ground and rolled over each other in playful abandon. Jane couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Now, that is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.”

  Jane turned toward the house. Anthony stood leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe leading to the garden room. He looked exceptionally handsome in a crisp white cravat and a rich green waistcoat. His navy coat and buff breeches clung to his familiar frame. She nearly sighed with want.

  “How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

  He pushed away from the doorframe and came toward her. “Too long, probably. I couldn’t resist the view.” He sat down in the chair on the other side of the table and sipped from Jane’s glass of lemonade.

  “That’s just lemonade,” she said.

  He gave her a wry look. “Good.”

  The kittens ran to greet him, and he laughed down at them. “Has anyone told you that you aren’t dogs?” He looked over at Jane. “Have you ever seen cats rush to meet someone?”

  She shook her head, overcome with joy at how good he looked and sounded, at how happy she was to see him. “No. But then they’ve always done that with you. You’re special.” She held her breath, waiting for him to argue that he wasn’t.

  He leaned down to scratch them both behind the ears. “It seems so,” he murmured.

  “You look well,” Jane said, devouring him with her eyes.

  “I feel well,” he said. “As well as when I stayed here with you.” He sat up, leaving the cats to frolic once more. “That was the best week of my life.” His gaze met hers, and her heart skipped.

  Then she realized what he’d said. “But I wasn’t with you the past week.”

  “No, and I’m glad for that. It wasn’t very pretty, and not just because I stopped drinking spirits entirely—I did that when I was with you too.”

  “Then why?”

  “I allowed my mind to go where it needed, to be angry, to be sad, to grieve.” He grimaced. “I wish I could say I’m done.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to be.”

  “Well, it has been a year. Almost,” he added softly.

  “A year of pushing it all to the side. There is no time limit on grief—or recovery,” she said, feeling bad that she’d been so impatient for him to come. But also glad that he was finally here.

  “Yes, and I want to be honest with you. I tried to be, but it’s hard when you aren’t honest with yourself,” he said dryly, cracking a smile that lit her entire world. It faded before he added, “I still don’t like myself very much.”

  “Oh, Anthony.” She stood and went to his chair. “I like you enough for both of us.”

  He laughed, then clasped her hand and tugged her onto his lap. “That is the very best news, for I quite love you.” He leaned forward, encircling his arms around her waist, and kissed her, his lips so soft and familiar against hers.

  She curled her arms around his neck. “I love you too.”

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Enough to marry me?”

  Her breath caught. She’d hoped they would get to that—eventually. She never imagined he would ask so soon. “Are you sure?” she asked, wanting him more than anything, but not wanting to push him too far too fast.

  “Never more. I am still healing, but I wager I’ll make even more progress if the greatest nurse in London is at my side.”

  She laughed, unable to stop grinning. “I was hardly that.”

  He grew serious. “You gave me succor and support when I needed it most—physically, mentally, emotionally. I would be lost without you. Of that I am certain. If you have the patience to continue to suffer my madness, I would be honored to make you my wife.”

  “As it happens, I do.” She cupped his face, her heart bursting with love. “And you’re not mad.”

  “I’m mad about you.” He winked at her. “Oh good, it still works.”

  She kissed him with wild abandon, twining her fingers in his hair.

  “Ahem.”

  They broke apart, and Anthony lifted he
r while he rose from the chair.

  The Marquess of Ripley stood in the doorway to the garden room. “I feared if I didn’t interrupt, this would just continue.”

  Anthony grinned. “Probably.” He turned to Jane and took her hands. “Just to confirm, you consent to be my wife?”

  She held tightly on to him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  “Oh, good. If you’re amenable, we can wed right now.” Anthony inclined his head toward Ripley, who led a procession of people into the garden: Phoebe, Anne, Anthony’s butler and another gentleman, and Jane’s entire household.

  “How?” was all Jane could manage to ask.

  “Special license, my love,” Anthony said. “And a great deal of help. It turns out when you ask people for that, they are delighted to give it.”

  Jane felt as if her heart was going to burst with joy. Phoebe brought her a sprig of flowers and hugged her.

  “You knew about this?” Jane asked.

  Phoebe nodded. “I thought it was a brilliant idea.”

  Jane did too. She couldn’t quite believe it.

  Anne joined her. “I’m going to stand as your witness, unless you’d prefer Lady Ripley.”

  “No.” Jane hugged her sister tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She stepped back and asked the question she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer to. “Do Mama and Papa know?”

  Anne shook her head. “I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing until it was done.” She leaned in and whispered, “I wanted to make sure you were going to say yes!”

  Jane smiled and nodded in understanding. “Thank you. You’ll tell them?”

  “When I get home. They think I’m shopping with Mrs. Hammond.” Anne looked toward the house, where Mrs. Hammond stood in the doorway to the garden room. She smiled and waved.

  “Come out and join us,” Jane invited before turning her attention back to Anne. “Are Mama and Papa still planning on leaving London?”

  “Yes.” Anne had sent Jane a note about that the other day. “But I’m not going with them. I’d prefer to move in with my sister, Lady Colton.”