Her Duke at Daybreak Mythic Dukes Trilogy

by Wendy Lacapra

  With her head once again held high, she returned below stairs to say her goodbyes.

  She wasn’t certain what point she’d proven, if she’d proven one at all. But at least she had four more hours wrapped in his scent.

  She stepped onto the stair the coachman had positioned to help her into the coach. A lump the size of a pumpkin lodged in her throat.

  Stay. Stay and fight.

  She closed her eyes to squeeze out the threatening moisture. He’d made his wishes clear.

  She would heal. She always healed. And if she ever permitted herself to look back, she would do so only to wonder if it had happened at all.

  She would leave his grace behind.

  Ash sat atop Cerberus, looking down at the tower.

  Leaving Alicia had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. He’d had to summon a wall of pure will to counter the onslaught of sentiments he did not even know how to define. Vicious, jagged emotions that sliced though his being like shards of broken glass.

  When he’d left, he’d planned to gallop fast.

  Fast enough for the wind to lash his cheeks. Fast enough to drown out the protestations ringing incessantly in his ears. Fast enough to leave the demons behind.

  The weather had not complied. A tortoise could have passed him at the pace he’d picked his way up the hill—the mist reluctantly unveiling no more than a yard of the path at a time. Now, at the summit, the fickle fog parted just enough to reveal the tower.

  He groaned.

  The whole morning had the marks of torture, as if he’d been leveled with yet another celestial curse. He’d been cursed before, of course, but this was a stronger damnation, a curse for a devil who’d dared steal one of heaven’s own.

  He blinked down at the tower, fighting a sting in his eyes.

  He had no choice but to leave, he argued for the thousandth time. Repetition did nothing to ease his roiling gut. Even his dark beast danced, imploring him to remedy his wrong.

  “If I asked her to stay, we both know what would follow.”

  He conjured—on purpose for once—the memory of his dead wife. He wanted the pain of Rachel’s censure—a reminder of the damage he’d done. All that came was the image of a bare Alicia, trussed with his black silk cravat, bliss shining on her face.

  One night with him had been too much for Rachel. Three nights with Alicia had only whetted his taste. She had followed wherever he’d led. And now, he’d left her alone.

  Every fiber of his being screamed to drive Cerberus down the hill. Enter the hall and then fall to his knees and beg. His unspoken supplications burned like acid on his tongue. He gritted his teeth.

  Yes, he craved her light. But what had he to offer in return?

  Darkness and perversion. A history of scandal and madness and death.

  “She would be smothered,” he said aloud. “Dead, even if she managed to survive.”

  Cerberus threw his head and snorted.

  Ash scowled. “What do you know? You’re a horse.”

  And then, as if seeing the tower had not been torture enough, more of the mist dissipated. At the center of the picture, an empty carriage.

  He’d never intended to watch her go. But now... Perhaps, a glimpse.

  Please.

  Just one, last glimpse.

  He held his breath to suppress the sensation of her head resting against his chest. Then Alicia—unattainable angel—emerged.

  She walked with the regal posture of a queen—a doomed queen. He’d known at least she’d be warm, but she was not wearing the sable.

  The little fool wasn’t wearing any cloak at all.

  She would freeze.

  Damnation, she would freeze.

  Cerberus snorted and stamped.

  She looked over her shoulder, as if heeding something from the hall beyond. Mrs. Kent came out, retrieved a bundle from under Alicia’s arm, and shook out...

  He frowned. What the devil was she doing with his banyan?

  Mrs. Kent held the garment as Alicia put her arms into the sleeves. Even from this distance she looked ridiculous, like a child in the court robes of a king.

  And so lovely he wanted to weep.

  If she turned, she would see him. If she turned, perhaps, she would come to understand. She paused with one foot on the step provided by the coachman.

  Please. He prayed.

  She lifted herself into the carriage and firmly closed the door. Heaven did not hear prayers from hell.

  Loss spread out like a poison vine in every muscle. He leaned forward and hung his head. She’d taken his banyan—the one Cheverley had sent from the Far East. But he couldn’t rouse himself to anger. She could take anything he owned, and he would not protest.

  The carriage rattling down the drive carried the last thing that mattered—his heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alicia stared out the rear window of her parlor, gaze fixed on a blackthorn bush. She hadn’t known how to identify the bush whose black branches made a striking contrast against the courtyard’s red brick wall, not until she’d encountered a whole hedgerow of them the night she’d gone to meet his grace.

  Throughout the month of February, she felt a kinship to the blackthorn’s twisted branches. She, too, had been prickly and dark, twisted and bare. But the month had turned, and the blackthorn branches had filled with pink buds, heralding the onset of spring.

  In old Irish tales, heroes who were being chased could throw a blackthorn branch, and an impenetrable hedge of thick wood would emerge from the ground, saving them from destruction.

  She, too, she decided, could be saved. Even without fairy-story magic, the world was wide enough. Refuge could be found. Somewhere. Somehow.

  “Alicia!” Aunt Hester’s sharp tone cut through the haze of her reverie.

  She hadn’t been listening. Again. In defense, she’d grown tired of the same conversation. Would Simon, when he arrived, be able to sort out the will? Would the Admiralty truly allow the countess to take everything that should be theirs? Outrage had deadened Hester to any other feeling, she survived on stalwart moral superiority alone.

  Moral superiority Alicia did not share.

  “Pardon,” Alicia said, “I missed the question.”

  “I was speaking of the doctor.”

  “The doctor?”

  “The doctor who is to visit this afternoon,” Hester said with some exasperation.

  As if on cue, the bell rang.

  Clearly, she’d missed more than just a bit of repetitive complaining. She listened for the butler’s sound in the entry beyond.

  “Dr. Wilton,” the servant announced.

  Alicia recognized the name from The Herald. Dr. Wilton was the Royal family’s physician. Even with the most drastic economies, his fees would far exceed their ability to pay.

  The doctor entered the rear parlor and introductions were made.

  “I am afraid there has been some mistake,” Alicia said.

  “Are you not the widow of Admiral Stone?” he asked.

  “Yes, but we did not—”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “I believe my message was clear.”

  Alicia opened and then closed her mouth. “...If you would be so kind as to remind me?”

  “I am here to see to the health of the family.” The doctor looked from woman to woman. “My fees are already paid.”

  “Paid?” Alicia frowned. “By who?”

  “Someone grateful for Admiral Stone’s service, no doubt,” Hester said. “Perhaps it was your father’s distant cousin, the one you went to visit last month.”

  Alicia’s stomach somersaulted. And then somersaulted another time. A bitter taste nudged up her throat.

  “If you will excuse me.” She rushed though the dining room, down the back stairs, and out the door to the garden.

  The world around her swerved as she heaved. Nothing came, of course. She hadn’t been able to fill her stomach all day. Slowly, she stood. The bud-filled branches of the blackthorn bush
swayed in a breeze, adding to her sense the earth had moved.

  With shaky legs, she sat. Not good.

  None of this was good. If someone impressed by Octavius’s service had wanted to help his family, why hadn’t they done so before? And the non-existent cousin was certainly not the source. That left the Admiralty. And why would they be concerned with the family’s health?

  She placed her hand over her belly.

  A terrible suspicion had been nudging her since the second week of her sickness. If true, what would happen then?

  She turned her face to the heavens and inhaled. Perhaps the sickness was just nerves. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

  She made her way back into the house as Hester was entering the hall.

  “There you are,” she said. “Dr. Wilton would like to speak with you now.”

  Her? “Certainly.”

  She entered the front parlor and closed the door. The doctor’s eyes fixed to her still-shaking hands with interest.

  “Dr. Wilton,” she said. “I must know the source of your charity.”

  The doctor lifted his brows. “I could not tell you if I wished, because I do not know. A solicitor requested visit, and paid my usual fee.”

  She sunk into a chair. “But why?”

  “That is a question I can answer,” the doctor said. “He mentioned an unusually high laudanum bill.”

  She exhaled. “Aunt Hester.”

  Dr. Wilton nodded. “I have surmised as much. And I’ve cautioned her against increasing her dosage.”

  Who knew about the laudanum? The apothecary, of course. No one else. Although... Hadn’t the duke paid the apothecary the same night he’d paid Marie?

  She frowned. A pernicious turn of thoughts. She did not number in the duke’s concerns. He had made his position clear on that final morning. And she hadn’t heard a word since.

  “You look a bit peaked, my lady.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “Just strain.”

  “Might you permit an examination?”

  She eyed him with suspicion. “Would your recommendations be given in the strictest confidence?”

  His brows rose. “Of course.”

  The brief examination consisted, among other indignities, of allowing the doctor to listen to her heart and answering questions. When he was finished, he sat back down and drummed his fingers against the table, his expression troubled. She imagined he was counting months. Then, he said the words she’d been dreading to hear.

  “Lady Stone, is there any possible way you could be with child?”

  Aunt Hester’s shocked gasp came from the doorway. “Alicia, is it true?”

  The room tilted yet again.

  She couldn’t be with child. Any child she bore within a year of Octavius’s death would be considered his. A miraculous heir was certainly not a part of the Admiralty’s plan.

  As for the child’s real father? She’d promised him three nights. A bastard had never been part of the bargain.

  Ever since the doctor’s visit, Hester had been like a woman possessed. No amount of pleading or reason had shaken her off course. As far as she was concerned, this child was an answer to her prayers—a legitimate heir.

  Alicia should have known Hester would contact Captain Smith. And now that he’d come to call, what had been her private problem was now a matter for the Admiralty.

  “A pregnancy changes everything,” Hester continued in an excited fever. “It was one thing to consider the codicil while the duchess claimed to have the admiral’s only child, it is quite another if the admiral has a legitimate heir.”

  Alicia felt the captain’s eyes, but refused to look in his direction.

  “You are correct,” Captain Smith said. “The Admiralty will have to take into consideration an heir.” He paused. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the admiral join the fleet a month before he died?”

  “Yes,” Alicia whispered.

  “And it’s been two since his death?”

  Alicia nodded.

  Aunt Hester lifted her chin. “Any child born of a man’s wife is considered by law to be his own. Indeed, the law allows a year after the father’s passing for a widow to give birth.”

  Alicia had heard these arguments daily.

  As far as Hester and the world were concerned, this child would be a Stone. Alicia wished she could agree. It would be the easiest choice. Little for her would change, but for the addition of a child.

  But then she thought of Simon, of Octavia—Octavius’s true heirs.

  What was she to do?

  Ashbey. She squeezed her eyes closed. She could imagine only cold dismissal.

  She wanted this child. She wanted this child so badly she could smell its baby-new skin, feel it’s tiny fingers wrapped around her thumb. Only, what kind of life could she offer?

  Her child’s choices were a lifetime of lies or a lifetime of shame.

  “Aunt Hester,” Alicia barely recognized voice, “I wish to speak with the captain alone.”

  “Lady Stone, you know that would be—”

  “Absolutely within the bounds of reason,” Alicia interrupted, “given my condition and the captain’s connection to the Admiralty.”

  “I see no harm,” the captain said.

  “Aunt Hester,” Alicia raised her brows, “if you would just wait in the hall.”

  Hester huffed. “Of course, but I will leave the door ajar.”

  Alicia went to the window, hoping the sounds of the street beyond would muffle sound. She waited for a carriage to clatter by before she spoke.

  “Would a child born this winter be considered heir to Admiral Stone?”

  The Captain’s expression was unreadable. “It is possible, yes.”

  She pressed a fist to her lips.

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She turned away from the window, searching the Captain’s face for something familiar, some small thread that tied him to her past.

  Her father had died just weeks before the arrival of The Maitland. She remembered her grief, her distress. In a place where lives were short and harsh, her father had done little to protect her beyond leaving a modest amount in the funds. Even a small sum caused the men of the island to circle like vultures...

  Then came Octavius, and his ship full of gallant officers.

  She frowned, looking past the leathery texture of the Captain’s face, conjuring the face of the boy he’d been. Cheverley. She knew she recognized the name the duke had spoken.

  “Lady Stone, if you will permit me to suggest—”

  “Haven’t you done enough, captain?”

  He looked stricken. “You have me at a loss, Lady Stone.”

  “I knew I could not recall an officer named Smith.” She took a deep breath. “Cheverley, correct?”

  He blinked. “My lady, you are clearly overwrought—”

  “Is it a coincidence, Lord Cheverley, that you are connected to the Duke of Ashbey?”

  The captain’s gaze sharpened. “Ashbey?”

  She had been so, so foolish. “His grace knew enough about Octavius’s debts to place me in his. How?”

  Lord Cheverley’s expression was proof enough of his guilt. She pressed her hands to her head and began to pace.

  “I prayed and prayed and prayed for a child and none was given to me. When my husband found another, I suffered in silence. Then he found me. And now, the life of an innocent will be forever bound to a devil because you—”

  “Lady Stone!”

  She froze, breathing heavily. “Forgive me. The fault is mine alone.”

  “Not yours alone,” he said quietly.

  No. Not quite. One devil duke was intimately involved.

  “I—I trusted a friend...” His voice faded.

  “A friend?” She snorted. “Can a recluse have friends?”

  A strange fire glowed behind his eyes. “The man I knew would never have taken advantage of your grief. I wish I could make
this up to you. I just...” He paused. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”

  His remorse was real. So was the deep well of concern behind his eyes.

  Good God. For the first time since the doctor had spoken, the truth penetrated her heart. She was going to have a child. Not just a child, but Ashbey’s child.

  “This is none of your concern,” she said.

  “Is there anything I can do—anything at all?”

  “You can keep my secret.”

  “Ah,” he sighed. “Even you will not be able to keep your secret for long.”

  She slanted him a look.

  “Unless you marry,” he continued, “or bare the child in secret and send him or her away, the child will be considered the admiral’s heir.”

  She kneaded her aching brow. She thought of the print she’d seen the day of the funeral. Of the little girl with her hands pressed in prayer.

  “Octavia is Octavius’s heir.” Octavius’s only heir. The child he claimed.

  “Simon is the admiral’s heir,” the captain replied. “Unless you bear a child.”

  She frowned. “The Admiralty has decided the codicil is not valid then?”

  The captain’s expression gave nothing away.

  “But surely,” she insisted, “the Admiralty intends to honor Octavius’s wish and see to Octavia’s care.”

  He looked out the window, crushing his hat in his left hand. “That will be up to Simon.”

  “Octavia deserves the protection of her father’s family.”

  “In this, I heartily agree. But I am not the Admiralty.” His icy gaze returned to her and he lowered his voice. “What of your child, Lady Stone? Does not your child have just as much right to Ashbey’s care?”

  She placed her arms around her waist.

  In her mind, she saw that coat. That outrageously expensive coat. The duke had used debt to lure her in, luxury to cast her off.

  A man like that could sire a child, but he would never be a father.

  “The duke has made his wishes clear.”

  “Are you certain he would fail to provide for the child?”

  She was sure of nothing where the duke was concerned.