Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  Walter propped himself up on one elbow, watching her face tenderly. “And it really doesn’t bother you?”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “The idea of Hareden taking up with the girl.”

  “No. You know that. If he does, it wouldn’t change anything for me. Jeremy is like a glacier. He doesn’t budge.”

  “That’s not a satisfactory solution, is it?”

  “It’s the only one that matters.” She smiled at Walter. “He wouldn’t do a thing differently from what he has done if he sees fit to bed Miss Masbeck. I will own to you that I was jealous at first. She’s quite lovely, is she not? But did I tell you how the silly chit nearly knocked me over the first day she was at the manor?”

  “You don’t need to be jealous of her, my beauty. How’d she manage that?”

  “Wasn’t watching where she was going, I expect. Awed by a manor house. I don’t know.”

  It had been something of a shock, discovering that creature was to be her husband’s secretary. For one thing, Miss Masbeck was—Isabel was not unable to acknowledge the quality in another woman—ethereally pretty. For another, she was a woman. Isabel had never heard of a woman secretary. In a brief moment of utter confusion, she assumed that Jeremy had finally shown some kind of backbone and “secretary” was code for “mistress”. That seemed like something the idiot would do. Try to make it all more genteel and acceptable. Minimize potential censure.

  It was the way he usually did things. Quietly and without fuss.

  She could not understand his temperament or his inclinations. Even his call to arms had been something of an amusement to her, which she was sure made her an awful person and an even worse wife. But how would Jeremy, the consummate negotiator, the man so reluctant to oppose even his wife—who was supposed to be his legal property in almost every sense—go to war? Even if he had trained for battle, he did not have the gall for it. She’d tried and failed to imagine him killing anyone.

  Luke’s arrival had proven Jeremy was utterly spineless. At first, the baby looked like other babies. Had Isabel been a man, she would have assumed her wife might have stepped out on her.

  It did not seem to occur to Jeremy, or if it did, he said nothing about it until Luke was seven months old. If the dratted child had taken more after Isabel, she would have continued the pretense for as long as she could. Just for the sake of keeping the peace and allowing herself more room to breathe—Bowland would have an heir and she would be off the hook, so to speak.

  Society did not see it that way for her or women in general, but Isabel did. Luke was all Jeremy should want from her. Her marriage was not one of love; it was one of obligation. Desperation. Through Jeremy, she saw a way to escape a life of boredom and playing second fiddle to her younger sisters, who might very well marry before her, no, in lieu of her, if she chose not to marry the Duke of Bowland. Father made that very clear.

  So, the way she saw things, she was only obliged to produce an heir. If that heir was not necessarily legitimately related to the Hareden line, it did not make a difference.

  The problem was, Jeremy had different ideas to hers of what a marriage should be. It might have endeared him to her, if she were a different sort of woman. She had anticipated that he would be like other men of the ton who did not care much about fidelity or love or honor and followed only their pricks. Especially after he believed he had gotten his wife with child.

  He wasn’t like those other men.

  She occasionally wondered why he wasn’t, because from what little the dowager duchess said of her late husband and from what Isabel had seen of the man, he allowed pretty faces to turn his head.

  I turned it, thought Isabel.

  She remembered the way the prior Duke of Bowland had looked at her when he’d met with her parents to discuss the arrangement, the way his eyes lingered on her face, then her bosom. Jeremy’s father was seeing a beautiful woman attached to a dowry that included choice parcels of land. That was how desperate her own father had been to marry off his eldest. He’d given up key aspects of his estate to see her gone.

  The Duke of Bowland was also seeing, perhaps, an opportunity to philander with his son’s new wife. Thank God he’d died not one month before the wedding. Jeremy did not share his father’s predilections, that was for certain.

  And even when faced with persuasive visual evidence that his son was not his—she had not fornicated with another man in front of him, gracious, no, but it became more and more apparent as Luke grew older that he did not carry anything from the Hareden line—Jeremy did not retaliate.

  She expected anger, even relished the thought of a good, solid argument that would rattle the whole house. Of course, she did not want him to become violent, but she already knew that he would never raise his hand against her. What she wanted to see was some kind of fight, some suggestion of manliness and virility. She’d thought that surely, now, he would let her go. Or be rid of her, more aptly.

  But even after she baited him when he confronted her at last, there was no spark in his eyes. Just a slow resignation.

  He’d looked at her, looked at Luke with his mop of strawberry-blond hair, then said, “He is still my son.” That was it.

  They did not share a bed again, but that seemed to be her only punishment. If it was meant to be a punishment, it was a poor one. She saw Walter more often, first cautiously, then boldly. She waited for Jeremy to take a mistress or go to brothels and the gambling dens in town. He didn’t, so far as she was aware. For some reason that she couldn’t quite sort out herself, his restraint was infuriating and kindled her zeal to be away from him.

  The only thing she’d learned to be careful of was falling pregnant, and that wasn’t because she worried about what Jeremy would do. Nothing, probably. She was just proud of her looks and didn’t think bearing more children would leave them intact. Babies were also cumbersome.

  She was, she admitted, lucky that Jeremy was willing to accept Luke as his heir. Not even just his ward or responsibility, but his actual heir. It seemed to be a matter of duty and personal integrity to him. Although he said he did, she did not believe that he could truly love another man’s child as his own.

  He certainly did not love her, she thought.

  She was convinced that whatever he thought he felt for Luke was actually just obligation combined with a desire to avoid a scandal. Nothing more.

  He was well within his rights to see Luke sent away, to see her sent away.

  Some might have suggested that perhaps she should be more cautious. But it was not in her nature and she felt she had little reason to worry.

  Where Jeremy shrank from gossip, Isabel felt emboldened by it. She took what she wanted, and those who whispered about it were merely envious that they hadn’t or couldn’t.

  “But… she must be educated,” said Walter, drawing Isabel back into the present. “Unless secretary is code for something else.”

  Isabel stretched, reaching a hand up to cup his chin. “It doesn’t matter to me, and it shouldn’t matter to her… for what good is learning in a world like this?” She pulled him back toward the mattress, toward her nude body. “When she looks the way she does, education is not her greatest asset. I meant what I said—she’s mad not to try him.”

  “Mad, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  Walter chuckled. “Do you know what would be fun?”

  “Do you mean apart from letting her think we were wicked voyeurs?”

  She had struggled not to laugh when Miss Masbeck’s face belied what, exactly, she thought of that. Walter was rather dark in his humor, but he was not a perverse man. Miss Masbeck, though, had no reason to believe otherwise.

  Walter snorted. “Yes, apart from that.”

  “Tell me, because your expression does promise something fun.”

  “Well, we shall have to hurry if we want to make the morning post.”

  *

  Even though she had not slept much, Charlotte still dressed and came downstairs
at her normal hour. Later than the servants, but earlier than the dowager duchess. The sun was peeking out from behind fluffy, gray storm clouds. She did not think the sun would win. Today looked to be one where a hardy summer rain would prevail.

  The weather had cast the rooms in dramatic shadows, and when she passed Mr. Snow in the foyer, he said kindly, “I hope you’ve shut your windows, Miss Masbeck. Things look like they’re going to turn, and soon.”

  “Oh, goodness, I hadn’t thought of it,” she replied. “I shall go back and close them.”

  She’d been up so late thinking of everything else that she was very distracted this morning. Thinking of Paul and how sad he’d sounded when he claimed there was a person he’d give all for, thinking of the duke and how different things could be if only she weren’t…

  No, she mentally amended. Firstly, if he weren’t married. And even then, unless yours was different, station wouldn’t have much of a bearing on anything.

  She didn’t think she had the disposition to be a mistress, and that was the only ensuing situation she could see, here. The dowager duchess would be sure to have something to say about that, too. She was open-minded enough to think nothing of a woman being a secretary, but Charlotte got the sense that she’d have plenty to think and say about a secretary becoming her son’s lover.

  Charlotte sighed. Maybe she’d try going back to Aldbury this evening if it didn’t rain too much. She needed to get away from this manor, if only for her own sanity.

  “I’ll send Higgins up, if you were on your way to breakfast. He’ll see everything is shut tight.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Snow.”

  Whistling cheerfully, the butler gave her a nod and went toward the first parlor, where she presumed Higgins was at work, while she continued to the breakfast room.

  She did not expect that Paul would be there given his equally late night, but he was. They’d stayed up until at least four in the morning, losing track of time. He sat opposite his brother and both were sipping coffee, each looking rather the worse for wear. The duke was sorting through some of his morning correspondence, or perhaps it was last evening’s, and Paul had a fresh newspaper in his lap.

  “Good morning, Miss Masbeck,” Paul said with a smile.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Your grace, my lord.” She went to serve herself from the sideboard and smothered a yawn.

  Today was going to be very long, indeed. She’d put on her most comfortable morning dress as a sort of reward for even getting out of bed at the right time. She hadn’t been sure if she could sleep even once dawn broke, but she was certain that lazing there like a vagabond would be just the thing.

  If she lazed, she’d thought, maybe none of her concerns would be able to reach her.

  “It seems we all were burning the candle at both ends,” said Paul. He did look worn in the face, a little wan, but he was still undeniably good-looking and impeccably dressed in fawn-colored pants and jacket. The yellows in the breakfast room suited his light hair, too. “Jeremy tells me he was drafting some stupid deed of sale until three.”

  She chanced a closer look at the duke, who appeared no more or less haggard than she’d yet seen him. She didn’t know what she expected, because he did not seem to abide by the most regular sleeping hours. But now that she and Paul had spoken and Paul had alluded to Lord Hareden’s prior use of opiates, that perpetual haggardness made some sense. She expected that one’s body never quite got past that kind of thing, but she was no doctor and couldn’t say for sure.

  It was still a mistake to let herself look at him for longer than a second, because she was seized by the remarkable desire to walk over, take his face in her hands, and feel that stubble and those cheekbones for herself.

  Then kiss him.

  Regrettably, but sensibly, she did none of those things.

  “I did have some trouble sleeping,” said Charlotte, humoring Paul. “I found the library to be most helpful—I discovered books to keep me occupied even if I could not manage to fall into slumber.”

  She took a seat.

  “Oh? Anything about, hm, animal husbandry?”

  Lord Hareden shot his brother a look of utter consternation that Charlotte supposed translated roughly to, What the hell are you up to?

  But Charlotte took it in stride.

  “No. Well, a wise man once told me that such things could be too stimulating for nighttime reading.”

  “Indeed. Never underestimate the capacity for agriculture and livestock to be interesting subjects.”

  Paul gave her a very small wink and she could not help but smile. She could easily see why he was a successful rake, even if he had only claimed the title for himself in front of her. There could be little exaggeration to the word or the claim with those looks and that charm. They were a deadly combination.

  “There is a letter here for you, Miss Masbeck,” Lord Hareden said, apparently deciding to leave aside the fact that, to him, she and Paul were speaking nonsense. It was still very strange for her to be breakfasting en famille with a duke and his relations, but she’d learned over her relatively short time here that many matters of decorum were somewhat disregarded. She thought it would be different if they were in London or if the duke was going to receive visitors.

  So far, he hadn’t, and they hadn’t had to broach the topic of who she could meet as his secretary and who she couldn’t.

  The dowager duchess had warned her once in passing about Lady Hareden’s dinner parties, but she had not yet deigned to host one while Charlotte was in residence.

  Charlotte was positive that had very little to do with herself and everything to do with Lady Hareden’s galavanting off with other men.

  “Oh? From whom?”

  Her father had only just written. In the past, her most frequent correspondents were her closest friend, Irene, and her Aunt Edith. Neither had written since she’d come to Rosethorpe. But Irene had just taken a new post in Leeds as a governess, so she was probably very busy with her new young charges. And who knew what on Earth Aunt Edith did with her days, living on her own as she did.

  Her parents kept encouraging the spinster to come live with them in London, but Aunt Edith always declined despite being slightly batty. Or, reasoned Charlotte, she declined because she was batty. Mother said she’s always been a little different, though.

  “A…” Lord Hareden looked at the envelope. “Mrs. Emily Rattray. Oh, it’s only come from Aldbury. Do you know anyone there, yet?”

  Charlotte let her coffee cup sit with a clatter. She squinted at the nondescript handwriting. She surmised that Lady Isabel had had someone else write the letter, or else Lord Hareden would have recognized her hand immediately.

  “Are you quite all right?” Paul asked. He looked at her, concerned. She must have appeared very taken aback, then.

  That wouldn’t do. She had no wish to discuss Mrs. Rattray with too much detail. Or indeed, any details that were real and verifiable. But why the devil would the woman send me a letter in her own house? thought Charlotte, with no small level of exasperation. If she wanted Charlotte to keep her confidence, fine. Charlotte could see little merit in exposing her, anyway. But for Lady Hareden to tempt fate in such a way was either careless or cruel.

  “Yes,” she said. “Quite fine.”

  But she said it quickly. Much too quickly.

  Even the duke paused in his letter sorting to stare up at her. He and Paul both had such twin expressions of bemusement on their fetching faces that she would have laughed had she not been rattled.

  “A new acquaintance, then,” said Lord Hareden.

  You could call her that.

  “More or less,” lied Charlotte, thinking fast. “She is the landlady I have mentioned. I did not realize that she would write to me if I did not seek her out quickly enough. How dogged.”

  A flicker of what had to be disappointment passed across Lord Hareden’s face, but he schooled it away quickly as she watched. Did he want her to stay in the manor? “She
seems very… diligent… then.”

  “Don’t get landladies like that in London,” Paul quipped. But his eyes ranged between his brother and Charlotte keenly.

  She tried not to squirm or look too guilty because of her lie. It couldn’t be helped and she was not hurting anyone. She was probably saving someone, though she did not know if that was Lord Hareden or Lady Harden. “No,” she agreed. “Not that I’ve ever heard of, anyway.”

  Lord Hareden reached over to hand her the letter. Their fingers grazed together briefly and she allowed herself an instant to savor the warmth between them, the spark of contact, but took the letter for herself before it could be considered unseemly.

  “I am in London this afternoon and this evening, remember,” he said. She knew there were no appointments for Rosethorpe in his diary. She nodded.

  “Did you want me to start looking after that matter between Mr. Smith and Mr. Corbett?”

  It was nothing too sensitive or delicate. There’d been a dispute over some right of way between one farmer’s land and another’s which led to one of them, Mr. Corbett, erecting a pointedly massive fence that kept Mr. Smith from being able to ride directly to Aldbury. It might have been a small, parochial dispute that fizzled out on its own, Lord Hareden had said—until Mr. Smith went to a bailiff in London to make an official complaint.

  Things escalated to a point where Mr. Corbett had been compelled to write to Lord Hareden, knowing he was a barrister and lived nearby. Charlotte thought that she could at least pen a reply with the duke’s leave. It might help move things along. The main problem was not only did Mr. Corbett’s fence inconvenience Mr. Smith, it also made it difficult for others who lived in or were passing through the vicinity to travel without taking convoluted routes.