Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues

by Caldwell, Christi

  None. Only pain had resulted in the mad escapade that was his marriage.

  Could he do it? Could he go back to a woman who wanted him only as a stud? Oh, she admired him. He knew that. She lusted after him. That too, was true. But love? He’d hoped. He’d dared to hope that she would grow to need him as much as he had inexplicably found he needed her.

  Now, he was not so sure.

  He closed his eyes. How the hell was he going to survive this?

  Argyle ventured out of the shadows. The older man had not come down to Kent. The idea of being hundreds of miles from the ship had been too much for him to contemplate.

  “Are we off, Captain?” the man asked, a hopeful note in his Scottish burr.

  It was tempting, so bloody tempting to say yes. “Not yet. Not yet.”

  Argyle held his cap in his hand, his hair wiry and silver in the moonlight. “You seem troubled, Captain.”

  “I am,” he confessed. There was no point in hiding it from the man who had known him almost since boyhood.

  “Is it the wife?” Argyle tsked. “Women are ever trouble. Sailors are fortunate. Always off and away.”

  Just like his father. He winced. As a small child, his father had seldom been home. He’d always been sailing to the horizon.

  It had broken his mother’s heart. It had driven her away from him. That, too, had been a marriage that had been loveless in the end.

  Would it break Beatrix’s heart if he were to sail off for months at a time? He did not know. Some men might test it. They’d go off and come back to see if they had, indeed, been missed. Running. That’s what that was.

  Adam wasn’t a coward. And he wouldn’t be leaving until he understood exactly where he and his wife stood.

  Was he her stud, or was he more? It didn’t matter that there was no one to blame but himself. It was he who’d agreed to be naught but a stallion in a stable. Still, he dared to want more. He wasn’t sure he could live with less.

  Adam sighed and turned from the wheel. “I have business in the city as of yet, Argyle.”

  The older man’s shoulders sank, disappointed. “If you say so. England is a cesspit, if you ask me. But your presence here will surely improve it.”

  He stared at Argyle as those words rang through him.

  Perhaps, he had made a great mistake in these last months, for he had done nothing to pursue the cause which was so important to him. Not really. The offices were almost done, and his soul had felt deficient. If he was to be more than a stud, he’d need more to live for too.

  And there was only one man who could help him with that.

  * * *

  Beatrix held her heavy, dark blue traveling skirts in one hand and her cane in the other as she climbed the steps of the Hunt townhouse, her heart heavy.

  The double doors opened swiftly to her and she crossed the threshold into the place which had been her refuge after the death of her family.

  The foyer was quiet. Likely, most of her family was out or in the country. The brass tip of her cane tapped along the black and white checkered floor.

  She wasn’t entirely sure why she had chosen this particular destination.

  That wasn’t true. She did not wish to be alone and she had little doubt that Adam had not gone to Westport House to stay if he was, indeed, in London.

  The idea of entering that empty house, devoid now of love and laughter had been beyond her ability at present. The visions she’d had of it being a place of excitement, filled with children and interesting people coming and going now seemed a distant dream.

  It had been the same in Kent.

  The moment Adam had clattered down the drive, away from her, and she had been alone, she’d felt the great chasm of loneliness. To her horror, she felt fairly certain it wouldn’t matter if the house was bursting with guests.

  Without him, it was a pile of stones.

  She could hardly believe that was true. For she had been so certain that her home in the country was her heart. After all, she’d hungered for it and triumphed when it had been returned to her.

  But, as it turned out, the house itself was devoid of meaning without the people she loved.

  The people she loved. They were all gone now.

  Weren’t they?

  Except, Adam.

  Adam had made the great house feel like a home. Just like it had been when her family was still alive.

  She could not shake his face from her mind when he’d asked if he were not enough.

  God, she’d been cruel. She had not thought, nor had she been able to answer him because, in that moment, she did not know. The drive to fulfill the earldom had caused her to throw away the moment in which her husband confessed he loved her.

  She cringed, stopping in the center of the foyer.

  Was she even capable of happiness now?

  “Where the devil is your husband?”

  She scowled, driving her cane into the floor.

  Lock strode into the foyer from the study, his face as dark as thunder. “Is he coming?”

  She forced herself to look at her handsome cousin and not be daunted by her own misdeeds. “I doubt it.”

  Lock’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  She shrugged, not wishing him to see the depths of her heart. If he did, Lock might run off and do something regrettable. “I have not seen him.”

  Lock’s mouth dropped open and his eyes lit with shock. “He’s left you?”

  Sighing, she wondered where she could go to escape his questions. It was unlikely she could make a mad dash for the stairs. Mad dashes were still beyond her. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Lock gritted, his dark hair falling over his forehead.

  “No, thank you,” she countered.

  As if he hadn’t heard, Lock announced to no one in particular, “I knew he was a bastard.”

  She lifted her cane and pointed it at him. “Before your thoughts run amok, you might be surprised to find that it is I who is the bastard in this case.”

  Lock snorted. “You are incapable.”

  She plunked her cane back down and gave him a rueful smile. “As it turns out, that is not true.”

  “Beatrix,” he scoffed. “There is nothing you could have done to excuse whatever he has done.”

  “He told me he loves me.” She cocked her head to the side, determined to make him see the reality of the situation. Her husband was not a villain. “I would not reciprocate. And then he told me he needed a little time.”

  Lock’s brow quirked as he took this in.

  “Do you still find him to be the devil incarnate?” she asked, swinging towards the salon. She wanted a brandy. Surely, as a married woman, a brandy was acceptable.

  Lock cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  She let out a frustrated exclamation then said again bluntly, “He told me he loves me. I would not-”

  “Yes. Yes.” He waved that aside and stepped towards her. His polished, black Hessians thudding on the marble floor. “I understood. But. . . He loves you?”

  “So he says. In truth, everything he has done in the last months suggests it.” Her shoulders sagged as she realized how badly this had all gone. “Actually, he’s given me everything and I. . .” Her insides did the most terrible dance as she tried to wrestle her despair back into place. “Oh God, this is so very terrible.”

  Lock strode forward, clearly flummoxed by her sudden wave of feeling. “Come, have a glass of wine.”

  “I wanted a brandy,” she lamented, “but nothing shall cure this feeling.”

  Taking her by the elbow, Lock guided her forward. “Mother says champagne does the trick for any malady.”

  “Where is your mother?” she asked suddenly. Hyacinth would likely give her advice. Though, since the dowager duchess’ marriage had been a rather open one, she wasn’t certain of the efficacy of it.

  “Out. With a friend.” Lock shuddered beside her.

  Which, of course, meant that said frie
nd was male and, no doubt, very good looking.

  Lock gently ushered her forward, through the gold-edged door into the salon.

  She followed, too tired to protest that she was quite capable on her own, thank you very much. She gripped her cane tightly. She hated that she’d begun to use it again so much, but the last few weeks had left her fairly weak.

  As they entered the salon, she realized that they were not alone. Gemma sat in a Chippendale chair in the corner near the fire, a champagne glass in hand.

  When she spotted Beatrix, she leapt to her feet. “Sister.”

  Beatrix winced. “Perhaps not for long.”

  Gemma shook her dark head as she offered her cheek for Lock to kiss. “I don’t understand.”

  Lock performed said kiss then explained, “Beatrix is being dramatic. Divorce is not possible.”

  Gemma paled, her curls bouncing as she gaped from Lock to Beatrix. “Divorce?”

  “Not by me,” Beatrix replied dryly. “And I think he’s too much of a kind man to request it, even if he wishes to be rid of me. And truth be told, there are no grounds. But we are in a great muddle and I need help.”

  “Anything,” Gemma said quickly, taking Beatrix’s hand.

  Beatrix pressed her lips together then forced herself to say, “I have made a great realization and I only pray that it has not come too late.”

  Gemma quickly poured another flute of champagne and extended it.

  “Isn’t champagne for celebrating?” Beatrix challenged, eyeing the glass warily. “I’ve nothing to celebrate at present.”

  “I dispute that,” Gemma countered, sitting back down and gesturing to the chair opposite. “Mother says there is always a reason and coming to your great realization sounds like a very good reason, indeed.”

  Beatrix groaned but took the exquisitely cut glass and sat before the fire. She perched on the decollate chair, allowing her booted toes to inch towards the grate. The chill of autumn had invaded London and the warmth from the fire was welcome.

  “I did not put him first, you see,” she explained.

  Gemma shook her head. “I don’t follow. Men are almost always first.”

  Lock rolled his eyes.

  “No,” Beatrix put in before Lock could begin a diatribe on the fecklessness of most women. “I mean in my marriage. You see, I was so driven to have a child. To fulfill the earldom, I did not consider his suffering or even that he has given up so much for me.”

  The full weight of it fell on her in that moment. He’d abandoned his homeland, his independence, and even forgone travel for her. He’d then nursed her body and spirit and when he’d confessed his love, she’d stared at him. As if he were mad for not doing as she desired.

  Swallowing back half the glass, she stared into the flames. “What if he never wants to see me again?”

  “Perhaps it’s best,” Lock said, though he appeared desperately uncomfortable at the topic of their conversation. “I never did like-”

  “Lock, I love you, Brother,” Gemma drawled. “But you will be quiet now. You obviously know nothing of love.”

  A muscle twitched in Lockhart’s jaw and, suddenly, Beatrix felt that, actually, Lock most likely had had a very bad experience with love, which might explain his hot-blooded anger since his return.

  Gemma sat in the chair opposite. “If he said he loves you, I do not think he will eschew your company. I know Adam. He is a good man. I never really thought he would retire from the seas, but if he declared his feelings to you, he means them. I have never known a finer fellow, except for my brothers and my husband, of course.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think you mean me,” Lock drawled as he leaned against the mantel, his crimson uniform and gold buttons nearly blinding in the light spilling in through the windows.

  “You have your fine parts, Lock,” Gemma returned carefully. “A few of them, in any case. But you did try to kill my husband.”

  “I thought he was abducting you,” Lock pointed out, lacking any indications of remorse.

  “True.”

  Beatrix swung her gaze between the siblings. Amazed at the exchange. She’d never heard that part of the story.

  Beatrix stared at the bubbles slipping to the top of her glass. “What do I do now?”

  “It all depends on what you want,” Gemma replied softly.

  Beatrix frowned. “What I want?”

  “Yes.” She leaned forward and took Beatrix’s hand in her own. “You have suffered greatly. I know that. I cannot even imagine. But I must ask. Do you simply wish to get on with having an heir or do you wish to have a loving relationship with your husband? You cannot treat him as a stud to be trotted out and expect him to thrive in the relationship.”

  A distressed noise trumpeted from Lock.

  Ignoring him, Beatrix realized the truth of Gemma’s words. “My God, that’s what I’ve done. But I feel so driven to pass on my father’s legacy.”

  “Why?” Gemma asked, with genuine concern.

  The question seemed absurd. Was not the answer obvious? She eyed her cousin in her perfect green gown, her swelling stomach, and wondered if Gemma had ever truly known pain. “Because it’s a way of honoring him.”

  Gemma lifted her chin and, with the wisdom of a woman who clearly had not known only a frivolous life, said, “So is being happy.”

  The words struck her because they were something very similar to what Adam had said to her not long after their first meeting.

  “Heaven above, I want him,” she cried, her feelings trumping her reasons. “No one has ever made me feel so alive or loved. When he is not present, I am alone. I am not myself. He permits me to be free.”

  “Then woo him,” Lock whispered, interjecting himself into their conversation.

  Beatrix glanced at the man who had only ever been a source of negation in her relationship with Adam. “Woo him?”

  He nodded tersely, his face perplexed. “I cannot believe I am advising this. But if you love him, as you seem to be saying, and he loves you, then the best way is to reach out to him and show him that you love him, that you understand him, and that he is your world. Everything else, including a child, can come after.”

  “That’s how it should be, isn’t it?” Beatrix breathed, thinking of the love between her parents who had always looked at each other with pure adoration. “A man and a wife in love.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gemma, her pink lips parting in a knowing smile.

  She withdrew her hand from Gemma’s and covered her mouth, hating the clarity of thought coming to her now. “I fear he has suffered greatly since my loss.”

  “It is harder for you, but you’re right, he suffered, too.” Gemma looked towards the windows, transported. “I saw him the day after it happened and I have never seen a man more terrified. He truly feared you would leave him.”

  Tears stung her eyes. He had been there for her. Now, it was time that she listen and be there for him. Now, she just had to find him.

  “Do you think Alexander knows where he is?” she asked, hopefully.

  “Alas, Alexander is in Bristol. And even though they are close, men can be terrible in a crisis. They don’t always reach out to those that love them.”

  Not just men, she thought. She understood that, too, the need to protect oneself. Isn’t it what she had done? Well, that was over now. And she was going to love Adam like her future depended on it because, truthfully, she understood now that it did.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I am about to lose my mind.”

  “Welcome to married life!” Aston declared with a tiger grin. “Isn’t it absolutely wonderful?”

  “No,” he gritted, tempted to pop the duke in the glib mouth. “It is not.”

  “I say, old boy,” Aston lowered the brandy bottle and flung his long, velvet dressing gown back as he stalked from the fireside. “Do confess your sins.”

  Adam let out a suffering sigh and looked at Tony, reticent to give words to his presence at Aston’s house
before company. Even if it was his friend.

  “Oh,” Aston said easily. “Tony is excellent with confessions.”

  Tony lifted his brandy snifter. “It’s all my experience with sin, you see.”

  Adam blew out another exacerbated breath then flung himself down onto the closest chair, unbidden. “Aston, this is all your fault you know.”

  “It almost always is,” Aston agreed. “Now do tell, what am I responsible for?”

  Adam narrowed his eyes. “You prodded and pushed me towards Beatrix.”

  “Now, now. I did nothing of the sort,” Aston said indignantly, pouring himself a brandy. “I merely pointed out your very obvious affection.”

  “I agree with Da,” Tony declared. His easy presence, which was usually so welcome, was damned annoying at present. Still, his loyalty to his father, so apparent, was admirable.

  Tony cocked his head to the side, completely relaxed in the leather wing-backed chair. “You were mooning after her.”

  “Mooning?” Adam eyed the brandy, wondering if Aston was ever going to get around to being a good host. “I’m a bloody captain of a ship of war. I do not moon.”

  “Fine them. Admiring with great enthusiasm,” Tony quipped before he took a swallow of his own brandy and hooked his leg over the blue leather chair arm.

  Adam drove a hand through his hair. “This is hell.”

  Aston clapped him on the back then handed him an exceptionally large drink. “Say it isn’t so, Duke. Marriage should be bliss.”

  He took the brandy and downed it in one swift swallow. “Not for everyone.”

  Aston stared at his swift consumption, took the glass, and wordlessly refilled it.

  “You two aren’t everyone.” As he said it, he passed the refreshed glass. “I truly was certain you two were perfect for each other. Surely, this is just a misunderstanding. All marriages have misunderstandings.”

  “You should see the misunderstanding Da and Ros had,” Tony crowed helpfully. “I swear, if it wasn’t for me, Da would be drunk in the West Indies right now, driven from his lady love forever.”

  “Thank you, puppy,” Aston said, rubbing his chin, “for extolling my virtues.”