Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  “What do you think?”

  “Me? It’s not my place to think about it.”

  “Clearly, though, you are. Or have thought about it.”

  She could not refute that without looking like a liar or a simpleton. “I think it has. But more than that, he seems sad.”

  “In what way?”

  Charlotte scoffed. “I… it’s…”

  “Not your place to say, yes, I know. But if you’re thinking about it, you must have some kind of theory.”

  Was she dreaming this entire conversation?

  He was not baiting her. He did not seem to be tricking her into saying anything incriminating. Heavens above, she did not know the man and he knew nothing much about her, save she was his brother’s secretary and her elder brother had died. There was very little he could do to make her life any harder. He had no reason to try. And if he wanted to bed her, surely he would not be using this line of questioning. It was the least romantic thing she could imagine.

  “Why does he stay loyal to Lady Hareden?”

  It was not what she meant to say, not even close. She was going to bring something vague up, or possibly even bid him “good night” and return to her bedroom without a book for a sleepless night. Horrified, she waited for the inevitable chastisement. Or the laughter.

  Neither came.

  “You would have to ask him, because although he has disclosed some things to me, I cannot understand them. I must confess, Miss Masbeck, that I am a rake in all senses of the word.” She peered at him skeptically. “I am. Now, I do have ethics. But if I were in his position, I would not stay loyal to my wife.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “If I were married and my wife was faithful, I would not step out on her, but in this exact instance? I wonder exactly what you have asked.”

  She was still recovering from someone respectable admitting to being a rake as though he were disclosing his favorite sweet.

  “I think the problem is more complex than just Lady Hareden’s behavior.” She tried to summon some idea of what it might be like to go into battle, come out of it with a noticeable impediment. Failed. “But he seems… so…”

  “So…”

  If he’d admitted he was a rake, she could admit some of her deepest conjectures, surely. “Capable of… loving.” There it was, it was absurd, absurd to say about a man and certainly about a duke. “Capable of… being… kind.”

  He watched her, waiting for her to say more.

  “I mean, for example, Luke probably isn’t even—”

  Softly, he stopped her. “He wouldn’t want us to say it. I don’t think we should.”

  But in that instant, they shared a long look of understanding. She nodded, thinking that there was precious little time left in which people would not be saying it.

  Once the boy was older, she was sure that the more cruel members of the ton would be quite relentless about the dissimilar looks between the boy and his father.

  The duke was his father, though. If not by blood, then by everything else that mattered. Warmth, affection, leading by example, love. It had been clear, even seeing them together for only a little while, that the duke regarded his role as obvious, imperative and not a burden.

  “It just seems like he’s trapped under glass or in amber,” said Charlotte, gazing at the candle’s flame. “I don’t know if war did that, or living this way with his wife has done it, or if everything, collectively, is encasing him in a prison of his own design.” She remembered her assurance that she would not talk about Mrs. Emily Rattray when she came perilously close to telling the details of her earlier encounter with Lady Hareden in Aldbury. But frankly, she didn’t want to devote more time to the woman than she already had. “It worries me.”

  “‘Trapped in amber’ is a good way of putting it. Why do you worry? He has servants and family. Money.”

  She frowned at him, much as she would have at her own brother. “I don’t understand why that’s a bad thing, to be worried.”

  “It’s not bad, but it’s not usual.” He had a question written on his handsome face. “You are his employee and you have not been one for long. I could see—have seen—there being some kind of rapport between someone who had worked for another, but that would presumably take time. No, he must hold you in some high regard.” He sat up slowly, stretching.

  She thought over what sort of answer she could give him that would not make her seem like a mooncalf or an opportunist. “As to why… he simply… inspires my worry. I am not a nervous person. Well, I don’t worry overmuch, is what I mean.”

  “You like him.”

  The truth was, this affinity for the duke had come on so fast and with such force that it was like being engulfed by a fierce sea wave. She was prepared to swim and survive it, but she wasn’t expecting to have had to. All she had seen was an opportunity to be somewhere new, doing work that she was good at—and she had taken that chance despite doubts and nerves. Nothing was supposed to have turned out like this.

  Much to her chagrin, she felt tears forming in her eyes as she thought of it. She’d never dreamed of meeting a person who could, just in the way he had of speaking to her, make her feel so warm. Understood. In addition, he made her feel something she never thought she would again. Desire.

  Knowing she was lost and giving away her answer without even saying a word, she sighed and didn’t bother trying to hide the tears.

  But what she said was, “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “You are allowed to like him.”

  “Perhaps, but we cannot be—friends.”

  “He let you see him at his most vulnerable. That isn’t for nothing.”

  “He didn’t have much of a choice! He was incapacitated and where I was meant to be, that was all.”

  “But he could have ordered you out, and he didn’t. Jeremy is not a very open man. That means he does trust you.”

  He looked at her with compassion as she struggled for composure.

  You are giving yourself away—stop it.

  “And I trust him, too.” She pursed her lips, then said, “And I… no, it’s best not said, too.”

  All that she felt and thought when she was near the duke flooded her mind. She tried not to give it words or form for another. Then she would be doomed. It would become worse, more concrete and insurmountable.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He most likely knew as well as she did that there could be no happy end for her. Not if it was an infatuation—which Charlotte knew deeply that it was not—and indubitably not if it was love, or something that was dangerously close to tipping into that category.

  You are really a fool, you know? First you open your legs to the first man talking of marriage, and then you…

  What? Fall in love with a duke? Could that even happen so quickly? If it hadn’t happened, then she was perilously near to it.

  “Don’t be,” she said mirthlessly. “I’ve brought it on myself.”

  “I don’t think we get a choice, Miss Masbeck, in matters of the heart.”

  She snuffled and asked him, “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do.”

  “But you said you were a rake,” she said, smiling, trying to lighten their conversation. “Do rakes have hearts?”

  “Oh, yes. Not all of them, but a fair few. I do. And mine, mine seems to be merciless.”

  “Is there someone for whom you’d relinquish your dastardly ways, then?”

  He became contemplative. “Yes. Without a quibble.” Managing a soft, strained little smile, he said, “But it would never work.”

  “Wouldn’t it?” Charlotte would not call herself a romantic, but she was an optimist. And it seemed to her that, in his position, he could theoretically have anyone he wanted. He was not an heir and he had no familial obligations in the same way an heir did.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He said no more about himself. “Have you decided what you’d like to read?”


  “Anything but a romance,” she said dourly. He chuckled at her tone.

  “Ah, but it might provide catharsis. Though not, perhaps, sleep, which is what you were after before I rudely took up your time.”

  “No, it’s been…” Charlotte cast about for the best word. “Good. I have liked speaking with you, my lo—”

  “Look, the ton would shudder at this or assume we were lovers if they heard me telling you, but just Paul is fine with me. I give you permission. At least if we are amongst ourselves. But do what makes you comfortable.”

  Charlotte assessed his tone, his sincerity. Deciding both were acceptable, she said, “Very well. If you are to be Paul, then please call me Charlotte. Or Lottie, actually. I prefer it.”

  Paul bowed from his place on the settee and she chuckled. He might be a rake, but at least he seemed good-hearted. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Lottie.”

  *

  Roused by Paul’s voice in the library, which was not far from his study—where he was working blasted late on a document he needed to take with him to London tomorrow afternoon—Jeremy decided that he could count on his little brother to break the monotony. He also hoped that Paul was not canoodling with a maid. He didn’t really think Paul would, especially with their mother in residence, but he might have taken it into his head to try soothing his own ruffled feathers after being caught by Lady Rosin’s father…

  As Jeremy drew closer to the library’s open door, he realized with some confusion that the second of the two voices he was hearing was Miss Masbeck’s. But she’d seemed so terribly off-kilter when they’d met, earlier. How odd.

  He paused in the corridor, avoiding the patch of floor that creaked whenever someone walked by. He was, he had to say, intrigued about what they might be talking about—what, under the sun, did they have in common?

  On the other hand, Paul was naturally good with people. All people. Not just women, and not just the ton. He just had a gift for making almost anyone feel at ease.

  Keeping to one side, the quiet side of the floor and the angle at which he would not be observed should one of them look to the door, Jeremy listened.

  “—is what I mean,” Miss Masbeck was saying.

  She was murmuring very softly, possibly because she did not want to be happened upon by any gossiping servant who might take issue with her being in a library unchaperoned with a duke’s brother.

  He shivered, thinking of what they could do alone in a library, unchaperoned.

  “You like him.”

  Jeremy frowned. Like who? He listened, stilling his breaths lest they get in his way of hearing properly.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “You are allowed to like him.”

  “Perhaps, but we cannot be—friends.” She sounded very conflicted and not at all like the unflappable Miss Masbeck he’d come to know.

  “He let you see him at his most vulnerable. That isn’t for nothing.”

  “He didn’t have much of a choice! He was incapacitated and where I was meant to be, that was all.”

  Incapacitated?

  “But he could have ordered you out, and he didn’t. Jeremy is not a very open man. That means he does trust you.”

  Dear Christ in Heaven, they were talking about him. She must have told Paul about the morning when she’d discovered him at the desk in his office, loopy due to that infernal laudanum. He should have kept to his usual tiny dose, the one that was meant to take the edge off—not gone so wholeheartedly into the warm stupor it could bring.

  “And I trust him, too… and I… no, it’s best not said, too.”

  What wasn’t? What wasn’t best said? Jeremy was on tenterhooks.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve brought it on myself.”

  Jeremy hated the sound of self-deprecation in Miss Masbeck’s rich voice.

  “I don’t think we get a choice, Miss Masbeck, in matters of the heart.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Oh Lord, is she crying? Was he the cause of it?

  “I do.”

  “But you said you were a rake. Do rakes have hearts?”

  At that, Jeremy had to smile. Paul most definitely had a heart, though it was not noticeable at a superficial glance.

  “Oh, yes. Not all of them, but a fair few. I do. And mine, mine seems to be merciless.”

  “Is there someone for whom you’d relinquish your dastardly ways, then?”

  Going still, Jeremy listened intensely. He’d never heard Paul talk quite like this, but then, he’d never asked his brother if there was one person for whom he’d reform himself.

  Then Paul’s voice was almost dreamy. “Yes. Without a quibble. But it would never work.”

  He would have to corner Paul sometime and ask him. Subtly.

  “Wouldn’t it?”

  Jeremy grinned. There was his Miss Masbeck, all problem-solving and spirit.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  What had his incorrigible little brother sounding so final, so wan?

  “I am sorry.”

  Though he had no idea whom Paul referenced, Jeremy was sorry, too. There was a new pain in Paul’s voice that he’d never heard, and he did not like the thought that Paul was upset. Still, it did make some sense as to why he flung himself at every woman. It could go either way, couldn’t it—turn rake, or turn pining romantic. Though it did seem that Paul was both.

  “Have you decided what you’d like to read?” Paul asked.

  “Anything but a romance.”

  “Ah, but it might provide catharsis… though not, perhaps, sleep, which is what you were after before I rudely took up your time.”

  Jeremy’s grin slid off his face. Romance. Was that what Miss Masbeck would not say? That she desired romance with him? Of course, there was a multitude of reasons why that was a bad thing to even contemplate. He skirted it by simply forbidding himself to think of it at all.

  Think of it, he did, though. Late at night. Very early in the morning. While he was alone. Sometimes during the day, when he was hurt that his own wife had never really given him a chance in the way he’d given her one. Then so many more.

  “No, it’s been… good. I have liked speaking with you, my—”

  “Look, the ton would shudder at this or assume we were lovers if they heard me telling you, but… just Paul is fine with me. I give you permission. At least if we are amongst ourselves. But do what makes you comfortable.”

  That didn’t surprise Jeremy. Paul intimately understood politeness and rules because he had been raised with them and they dominated their world, but as soon—or if—he could relax them, he did. If he did not, it meant he simply disliked someone.

  “Very well. If you are to be Paul, then please call me Charlotte. Or Lottie, actually. I prefer it.”

  Lottie, thought Jeremy, almost speaking the pet name aloud so that he could feel his lips forming it. It suited her. Charlotte did, too, but there was a more playful, more enthusiastic side to her that “Lottie” better encapsulated.

  “Happy to make your acquaintance, Lottie.”

  He tried not to be jealous that Paul had permission to use it, but he did not succeed.

  Chapter Nine

  “You don’t think the little secretary will tattle on you?”

  Isabel regarded Walter thoughtfully from her supine position on the bed. “I don’t know. She seems very similar to Jeremy in that she possesses honor. I doubt she will do anything, and what I do with my time is none of her affair.”

  Maybe if she did say something, though, all of this charade could be over.

  And as far as Isabel had seen, honor was not something that had done anyone around her any favors. Not her friends, who all deemed her behavior shocking through their giggles. But they still lusted after every little detail she gave them. Likely because they were trapped in engagements or marriages to men who treated them like pets while chasing their own desires.

  It hadn’t even done h
er enemies any good, either. Though, “enemies” was a strong term for women who were just affronted, or maybe jealous. Women like Lady Margaret Hareden, whose husband had kept several mistresses and been a great patron of the city’s brothels.

  It mystified Isabel that a woman who’d been so ill-treated by a man wouldn’t at least try to understand her. After all, Isabel had not hurt her son. She had not stolen from him. No, the dowager duchess’ chagrin was only infuriating. The stuck-up cow.

  Jeremy was a case in point of honor being toxic. His honor only locked him into being melancholic. Probably because he was trying so hard not to be like his father. Though they had never been friends, she only started to loathe her husband when he became miserable—while he could hardly be blamed for being different after Spain and losing his hand, he was so mulish and sedate when he returned.

  Now, he seemed even more miserable because his sense of honor would not permit him either to seek lovers of his own or send her away from him.

  What she wanted would surprise everyone to the point of shocking them. She would welcome an end to their marriage entirely, whether that meant a physical separation that led only to her living somewhere else and having no ability to remarry, or a legal one involving the church and state. Jeremy knew more than she about the technicalities. Of course, she would much prefer it if she could remarry, but that might not be in the cards at all.

  She had never told a soul, save Walter, this. Divorces were so derided and so rare that it was not something even she dared bring up to anybody, and Isabel was not one to shy away from lurid topics. She did not even care what her mother and father might have to say if it all came to pass, so badly did she want freedom. But Jeremy was weak, and warfare had only exacerbated his weakness so far as she was concerned. Shame and fear masquerading as chivalry, she thought.

  She had given him plenty of reasons to seek a separation. And he had done nothing.

  They had married when she was nineteen, which was, as far as her mother and father were concerned, too near to spinsterhood for their comfort. Isabel was Jeremy’s junior by about ten years. She entered the marriage with no true desire to wed him and the understanding that if she did not, she would be shelved so that her younger sisters could monopolize the funds her miserly father deemed worthy of his daughters’ potential futures. Elizabeth had been fifteen and Annie was only a year younger than Isabel. Lord Edmonton, Earl of Worthington, often lamented his lack of sons. Sons did not need dowries. Sons carried the line.