No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes, Kelly Bowen, Anna Harrington

  Her smile froze, although her heart stuttered with dread. “Yes, Duke?”

  Pomperly gestured with a scowl at the other footman to pour him a cup. “You have my full support with the hospital.”

  Relief poured through her, and her smile turned genuine. “Thank you, Pomperly.”

  “Of course, my dear. I know how much that place means to you.”

  “To the pensioners, you mean.” She accepted her coffee from the footman. She would still have to fight an uphill battle to persuade the War Office to keep the men here in Brighton, but at least now she had an ally. “Your support will help convince the rest of the board.”

  “And I’m hoping that the new post in Africa will help convince Thorpe,” he muttered as he sniffed at his own coffee. “I plan to send a letter to Lord Palmerston.”

  She frowned, not understanding. “The secretary?”

  Taking a sip of coffee, he smirked. “He’s a close acquaintance. If I tell him how much Thorpe is hoping to be reassigned to the new African command, I’m certain he’ll send the brigadier off packing immediately for Egypt and spare your hospital. That’s why he’s here, after all, pressing so hard for his academy.”

  “You’ve misunderstood.” She gave a faint laugh, despite the prickle of unease that rose inside her. “Brigadier Thorpe wants to start an academy here because he believes soldiers need better training. He’s hoping that this academy might save men’s lives.”

  “Is that what you think?” He clucked his tongue as if she were a naïve child who needed to be placated.

  “I know so. The brigadier told me himself.”

  “Then he’s lied to you.”

  The brusqueness of that slammed into her.

  Maxwell picked that moment to walk into the room, looking every inch like the commanding officer he’d become during the years they’d been apart. Tall. Strong. Proud. Instead of glancing her way, he approached the group of fellow officers who had gathered by the French doors.

  As doubt began to creep into her bones, all pretense of a smile faded. “No, he was quite earnest with me.”Look my way, Maxwell… Make me believe… Dear God, look at me! “His motivation is to create better officers.”

  “His motivation is to gain a promotion to major-general.” Pomperly set his cup back into his saucer with a jarring clank, as if finding the coffee—and Maxwell—distasteful. “Thorpe couldn’t care less about those old men or the cadets. The only man he cares about is himself. Surely you’ve noticed that. General Mortimer claims he’s just as ambitious as when he was younger.” He gestured impatiently for the footman to add liqueur to his coffee. “You knew him then. Surely you can see the same in him now.”

  She lowered the cup from her lips. The coffee tasted like acid on her tongue.

  “If he’s offered that commanding post in Africa—one that’s a jewel in His Majesty’s imperial crown—I’m certain he’ll accept immediately.” He took the freshened cup from the footman. “And forget all about those of us he’s left behind in Brighton.”

  Her stomach tightened into a sickening knot. “You are mistaken.” Maxwell had told her that he loved her, that he wanted a second chance with her, that he wanted to marry her…

  “Don’t be fooled, Belinda. That man will do everything in his power to establish that academy and help himself to a promotion.” He lifted the cup to his mouth and mumbled from behind the rim, “Even charm you into believing he’s sincere.”

  Numbness gripped her, except for her heart, which had already started to ache. She clung desperately to what Maxwell had told her, to the tenderness she’d felt when he made love to her, when he asked her to marry him. They would be married…

  But not until after they found a solution for the pensioners, after he no longer needed her help to establish the academy and secure his promotion.

  Her chest burned as she realized what the timing of that meant. And she’d been foolish enough to suggest it.

  Yet she forced out, “He would never do as you’re suggesting.” She had to believe that, had to believe that he was a different man now than the one who’d so selfishly used her before. “You’re only saying this because you don’t like him, because you want to court me yourself.”

  “I do want to court you. But I’m telling you this as a friend who doesn’t want to see you be hurt.” He gestured around the room with his coffee cup. “But you don’t have to believe me. Others will tell you the same. General!” Pomperly called out as General Mortimer circled through the room. “A word, if you please.”

  The portly general stopped in front of them with a nod to Pomperly and a shallow bow to Belinda. “Your Graces.”

  “General.” Pomperly made the man wait while he took a long sip of coffee, then fussed with his cup as he returned it to its saucer. “I was just commenting about the new African command post, how Brigadier Thorpe would be the perfect man for it.”

  “Indeed!” Mortimer folded his hands behind his back, which only made his belly jut out farther. “I’d recommend him for it myself, if Thorpe were open to the idea.”

  Her heart stuttered hopefully. “Then he doesn’t want to go to Africa?”

  “Heavens, no!” He looked at her as if she’d gone daft. “Deserts and camels, sandstorms and wild beasts… Who in their right mind would want that?”

  “Someone who’s hoping to be promoted to major-general, I suppose,” she prompted gently, fishing for any denial on the general’s part that would prove Maxwell’s innocence.

  Mortimer laughed. “Thorpe has better plans for himself than Africa, I daresay.”

  She stiffened, her fingers tightening on her cup. “Oh?”

  His eyes sparkled with admiration at Maxwell’s audacity. “If the creation of the academy goes well, he gets the post he’s wanted since the day he purchased his commission.” He leaned toward her, as if sharing a grand secret. “London!”

  Her gaze darted to Maxwell, whose attention finally wandered away from his group as he glanced around the room, but not yet finding her.

  She somehow summoned the strength to ask, “And a promotion to major-general?”

  “That goes without saying. He knew he’d be promoted when he made the suggestion to the War Office to open an academy here.”

  “He suggested the academy?” She prayed she’d misunderstood, prayed that this whole conversation was a mistake—

  “Directly to the secretary himself.”

  Dear God… No, that couldn’t be. She stared at Maxwell, oblivious to the rest of the room around them, even as his face blurred beneath the hot tears welling in her eyes. Still, she held her head high and somehow managed to replace her well-practiced smile, even as her heart cried out that she was a fool to ever let him back into her trust. But she couldn’t react, had to keep calm no matter how much she wanted to scream… because she was a duchess, after all. And a duchess would never let the world know that the only man she’d ever loved had once again used that love against her.

  “Had an entire proposal worked out, including a six-month timeline for implementation. Said we needed another academy to train officers. Said Brighton was the best place for it and that he knew people on the hospital board he could sway to support his cause.” General Mortimer smiled at her, not realizing that he’d just cut out her heart. “He must have meant you, Your Grace.”

  Somehow, she forced her smile to grow brighter. “He must have.” She set aside the coffee before her trembling hands spilled it. Or worse, let it smash against the floor.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Mortimer sketched a bow that included both of them. “I promised Lady Agnes Sinclair that I’d share with her what’s been happening in the Americas.” He chuckled with amusement. “The old bird’s ready to send the cavalry against the Americans again, just for spite!”

  “As good a reason as any, I suppose,” Pomperly drawled, lifting his coffee to his lips. Once the general strode away, he added in that same condescending tone as before, “Perhaps now you’ll believe me when I s
ay that I have your best interests at heart.”

  Her heart… Nothing was left of it.

  “Go away,” she whispered, her smile still firmly in place. “I no longer wish for your company.”

  Pomperly’s mouth fell open. “Belinda, how can you—”

  “Leave me alone! Tonight and for the rest of my life.”

  His face turned red, and he gestured at Maxwell with his cup. “You don’t mean that you still believe that arrogant bastard’s story that he—”

  “What I believe is none of your concern.” Now that the floodgates had opened, revealing what she truly thought of Pomperly, she found it impossible to hold back the venom, even knowing that he would turn the board against her, that she would lose all support in saving the pensioners’ home… but hadn’t she been destined to lose this battle from the beginning? “It never has been, and it never will be.”

  “I could have made you a duchess!” he seethed. In his anger, he grasped the coffee so tightly that his fingertips turned as white as the bone china cup.

  “I am a duchess.”

  “A barren widow.” He laughed scornfully. “Not even a true dowager.”

  The vitriol behind that snapped her polite patience. “I would rather be a light-skirt than become your duchess.” She arched an imperious brow and added, “Although I strongly suspect that there would not be much difference.”

  Enraged, he slammed down his cup and splashed coffee onto the tablecloth. He glared murderously at her and stalked way, without deigning to spare her a word in reply.

  She looked up and saw Maxwell staring at her from across the room. The anguish returned in a brutal blow so fierce that she flinched. She glanced away before tears could fall and give her away to the other guests. None of them would care that she’d given herself physically to him tonight. No, they’d cut her for daring to love him.

  Love? She nearly laughed at the bitter irony. Oh, so much more! Because tonight, when happiness had flowed in her veins, she’d dared to imagine a future with him.

  His brow furrowed as he stared at her. She couldn’t look away. Even with all the pain pulsing through her with each heartbeat, knowing once again that he’d plotted and schemed to use her, she couldn’t break the spell that this devil held over her. And most likely always would.

  But it didn’t mean she had to sell her soul.

  Summoning her strength, she walked toward the door, to walk out without a word to anyone, without permission from King George—to just leave. To walk into the cool night and disappear into the darkness. To drown herself in misery until no more tears would come. Then, when the pain subsided and she could breathe again, she planned on waging war on Maxwell, the likes of which he’d never seen before in his entire military career. If he thought he could so easily use her again for his own advancement, to harm old soldiers—

  A hand at her elbow stopped her. “Belinda.”

  She sucked in a harsh breath through clenched teeth at the sound of Maxwell’s voice, even now having the audacity to twine its way so heatedly down her spine and remind her of all the love she’d thought they’d shared, the coming together of hearts and souls… Ashes. It was nothing but ashes!

  “Are you well?” Concerned thickened his voice, but was that worry for her or for his precious academy? Did he think that she’d been wounded and needed solace, or had he come over to find out if she’d persuaded Pomperly to protest the closing of the hospital? “Did Pomperly upset you?”

  “Yes,” she answered, not turning to face him. She somehow found the strength to remain calm. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

  He stiffened imperceptibly, but she could feel it. God help her, she noticed everything about this man, and always had. It devastated her that she was still so connected to him that she couldn’t stop it, even now.

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me the real reason why you’re in Brighton.” Her numb lips surprised her by being able to form words. “Why you want this academy.”

  “To save men’s lives.” The same excuse he’d given her from the beginning.

  The same excuse she could no longer bear! “To earn a promotion and new post in London, you mean. After all, that was why you proposed the academy to the War Office in the first place, wasn’t it?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, needing to see his reaction. Needing to sear closed the fresh wounds he’d given her tonight.

  He tightened his jaw, not denying it. With each damning heartbeat’s silence that passed, the burning anguish inside her grew more intolerable. All the while, she was keenly aware of the room around her, of the guests who might be watching and waiting for her to show any sign of vulnerability that they could use against her.

  “Such an easy plan for your success… convince the board to support the academy, and you get to return to London as England’s glorious hero. All you have to do is cast out a few dozen old men from their home.” Then she forced out, each word a knife to her heart—“And pretend you love me.”

  His fingers tightened on her arm. “That is not true.”

  “Stop lying!” She’d been such a fool to believe his words of affection. But no longer. “I know why you’re here—why you’re with me tonight—why you… why you…” Oh God, she couldn’t even say it! Why you seduced me. “Because once again you wanted to advance your career at the cost of my heart.”

  “What I wanted, Belinda—what I have always wanted—is you.”

  “No. You want an academy so you can be promoted and assigned to London, and you want it so badly that you approached the War Office with the idea for it.” Only summoning all her strength kept her from clenching her hands into fists. “General Mortimer explained everything.”

  “Not everything.” He stiffly glanced at the other guests to gauge whether he and Belinda were drawing attention. But anyone who happened to glance their way would see nothing out of place. Just two old friends and dinner companions looking as if they were discussing how long they wanted to remain at the party tonight after the king retired. “This is neither the time nor place for this discussion.” He gestured toward the open French doors. “Walk with me in the garden, and we’ll talk.”

  “Never.” She would never let herself be alone with him again.

  “Give me the chance to explain. Because I do love you, Belinda. I always have.”

  “No.” She blinked rapidly, needing all of her will to keep back her tears. “Not always.”

  His head snapped back, that harsh reminder striking him like a slap.

  “When did you realize that you were losing the fight over the academy, Maxwell, and that you had to increase your attack in order to win against me? That you needed to do more than throw a picnic?”

  “Is that what you think tonight was?” Subtly, so that no one else would see, he pulled lightly at her glove to remind her of how he’d stripped her bare. “That I seduced you in order to win you over?”

  She pulled her arm away so he couldn’t touch her. “I learn well from my experiences, and you used me once before. Why should I think you’re no longer that selfish cad, when you’re simply repeating all the motions?” Despite the heat of her anger, her blood turned to ice. “Congratulations, Maxwell, you’ve proven yourself to be a bastard.” Her voice cracked as she added, “Again.”

  Unable to stand the torture of this evening a moment more, she walked on through the door and out of the palace.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  “Oh no, you don’t!” With the fear of losing her already pounding away inside him, Max caught up with Belinda just as she reached the line of carriages waiting in front of the palace. “You are not leaving.”

  She hurried to her carriage. “I’ll claim illness. His Majesty will understand.”

  “I don’t give a damn about His Majesty.” That drew a wide-eyed reaction from the tiger who opened the door for her that bore the Winchester insignia. The same door that Max wanted to drive his fist through. With an angry grimace,
he waved the man away and took her arm to help her into the carriage himself. “I care about you, Belinda.”

  “You can stop with the empty flattery.” She yanked her arm away and stepped up into the compartment unassisted. “There’s no point in it now.”

  “More than you realize.” Without invitation, he swung inside and shut the door, calling out to the driver, “Go!”

  The carriage jerked to a start as it moved away from the palace, fast enough to keep her from jumping out to flee. Although, based on her furious expression in the light of the carriage lamps, not fast enough to keep her from shoving him out.

  “You are wrong.” He leaned across the compartment toward her, elbows on knees and hands clasped to keep from reaching for her. “About everything.”

  “Then deny it,” she challenged. “Deny that you approached the War Office with the idea of turning the hospital into an academy.”

  “I can’t,” he snapped out, matching her rising anger. “Because I did go to Palmerston with the proposal.”

  “Because you wanted a promotion.”

  “Because I grew tired of watching good men die! Of hearing the cries of boys barely old enough to grow beards calling out for their mothers and sweethearts as they lay dying in the mud, coughing up blood with each gasping breath, missing arms and legs, faces blown off—” He let loose a curse he never should have uttered in front of a woman. “All of them terrified and in pain, frightened even more by the cries of others who were dying around them, the screams of horses, the artillery still firing in the distance.” He looked down at his hands as they shook. In his mind, he could still see the face of every man whose hand he’d held while they died. “And you can do nothing but pray they die quickly, to put you out of the misery of their pain.”

  Even in the dim light, he saw her face pale. Yet her eyes remained just as disbelieving. “But you also did it for yourself, so you could be promoted. Which was why you picked this hospital, wasn’t it? Because you told them that you had connections on the board that would make it easier to garner support.”