His Duchess for a Day

by Christi Caldwell

  The ducal carriage. The golden crest upon it.

  And the too brief hope about who would step out of that conveyance, only to be swamped by a crippling disappointment.

  His face twisted in a ravaged mask that squeezed her own heart. “That is why you left,” he said, his voice stark, his cheeks draining of the last of their color. “To protect me.”

  Elizabeth forced a tight nod, maintaining a thin grasp on all control of her emotions.

  “It was the least I could have done for the sacrifice you made. You gave me your name, your hand, your protection. I’d not take your happiness, too.”

  Crispin pressed his palms briefly to his face “It wasn’t their life to interfere with.”

  What must it do to Crispin for him to learn his life had been manipulated by those who’d given him life?

  Her parents had only ever supported her. They’d indulged their aberrant bluestocking daughter. There’d never been conditions attached to their acceptance and love of her. But then, they’d not been born with the blood of nobles flowing in their veins. Who could say what they might have done or become had their circumstances been different?

  Emotion blazed to life in Crispin’s eyes. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”

  That charge took her aback. “I did it for—”

  “For me,” he gritted out, surging to his feet. “You made a decision for the both of us, without any discussion. I was your husband.” Elizabeth leaned back, unsteadied by the volatile emotion pouring from his frame. “And more than that, you were my friend, and never once did you ask me what I wanted.”

  “I heard what you wanted.” She squared her shoulders, bringing them back. “Rather, I heard what you didn’t want.” Me.

  That hung between them, throbbing with a life force of emotion.

  Crispin’s cheeks leached of color. “That was never true,” he whispered.

  And yet, it had been spoken.

  Elizabeth pressed her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. They could run around in circles debating each decision, word, action, or inaction, and nothing would change. The past would remain unchanged by regrets. Letting her arms fall, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Crispin,” she said gently. “You never made me promises of anything more than a marriage of convenience. Freedom for the both of us from uncertain futures.” Hers, which would have always been precarious. His fate and future, however, had been set. She hugged her arms to herself. “It would have been wrong of me to expect anything more.” And so… she hadn’t. Instead, she’d left.

  His gaze blank, Crispin started on unsteady legs for the front of the room. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle.

  She stared after him, wanting him to stay, wanting to return to the easy friendship they’d once shared. But one could not turn back time to undo regrets and heartache.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I did not mean to hurt you. I would lop off my own arm before I would ever bring you suffering.”

  She swallowed hard. “I know.” Her voice emerged whisper-soft to her own ears.

  His heated gaze seared her, and for the span of a moment, she thought he’d say more… about her… about them, together.

  But then, without another word, he left.

  Chapter 11

  The following morning, Crispin sat at a corner table in the increasingly crowded taproom. He rolled his shoulders. His entire body ached from several days of uninterrupted riding. And of course there had been a sleepless night spent on the hard floor after he’d returned to his and Elizabeth’s shared rooms.

  Though, in fairness, there’d been little indication that she had found rest last evening either.

  And how could they have?

  With a cup of coffee cradled between his fingers, Crispin stared across the establishment to the fire blazing in the hearth.

  Around him, laughter echoed off the cracked plaster ceilings while patrons raised their voices over one another, competing to be heard in the noisy din. The cheerful ease of this place stood in contradiction to the tumult Elizabeth had unleashed last evening.

  All time had ceased to matter, blurring under the weight of realization.

  She’d heard the words he’d uttered long ago to the thunderous Duke of Huntington.

  The carefully crafted words—meant to assuage a displeased father so Crispin could maintain his fellowship and set himself and Elizabeth on a smoother path as husband and wife—had been heard… by her.

  He tossed back a long swallow, his throat muscles working quickly, the warm, bitter brew stinging his throat, a welcome discomfort.

  They’d been words uttered in cowardice when he should have told his parents to go to hell if they weren’t content with his decision. But he’d always sought to minimize conflict and maintain peace. And that one instance shattered the special bond he and Elizabeth had shared and sent her into flight.

  All these years, he’d been filled with resentment and questions. Always questions and more questions. All unanswered, with everything going back to Elizabeth’s senseless betrayal.

  Crispin swirled the remaining contents of his cup in a slow circle, studying the cyclonic twist.

  Now, everything made sense. Too much. A once murky situation was now vividly bright in its clarity, and Crispin was the one truly guilty of treachery.

  Frustration roiling in his chest, he set his drink down hard.

  Surely she’d known he’d not truly regretted taking her as his bride. They’d been each other’s perfect counterpart, balancing each other and bringing out their best, while knowing laughter and happiness.

  He’d not properly appreciated that joy until she’d gone, and taken every reason to smile along with her.

  How would they go on now? Together… or each of them alone?

  She wants nothing to do with you, in any way. Her disdain was so strong that she preferred living at Mrs. Belden’s, imparting lessons on topics she’d always despised.

  And why should she? She’d married a damned coward.

  Shame pitted low in his gut.

  It didn’t matter that he’d only just turned one and twenty when they married. He hadn’t been a boy, but rather, a man who could have fought his parents on the union they sought between him and Lady Dorinda. Ultimately, however, that mutually beneficial agreement he’d presented to a then-seven-and-ten-year-old Elizabeth had come from an actual yearning to have her as his wife.

  He’d wanted to spend forever with her, because there’d never been anyone whose company he’d craved more.

  Elizabeth, however, hadn’t expressed any romantic feelings for him, so he’d appealed to her logic.

  And last evening, when she’d revealed the truth of his parents’ machinations, he’d wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to tell her that she’d always owned his heart, but to give her those words now would have rung hollow and false. Nay, she had no reason to believe a single statement uttered from his lips.

  A shadow fell over his table, and he looked up.

  Brambly bowed his head. “The trunks are loaded in the carriage, Your Grace.”

  Crispin glanced over at the stairwell. “Thank you, Brambly.” The servant nodded and hurried off.

  Soon, they’d depart and make the rest of the journey to the beginning of the end of their relationship.

  That realization left him empty inside. Nay, you’ve been empty since she left.

  Crispin made to return his attention to his drink when a lone figure in the corner of the tavern caught his notice.

  Head bent over a book, the lad could not be more than two-and-ten years of age. With his crimson curls unevenly cropped at the nape of his neck and a pair of too large round spectacles perched on his nose, he drew forth images of a child who could have been. A boy or girl several years younger, but no less devoted to his or her books and studies.

  A child who would not be.

  But he or she could…

  That enticing thought whispered around his mind, and he clun
g to it, entertaining the possibility.

  Why couldn’t they begin again? With the past now laid bare between them and the secrets explained, they could renew the friendship they’d once cherished and start anew as husband and wife.

  Elizabeth had left to save him. She’d spoken of their friendship. She’d not ever indicated there was anything more between them. Not even last evening. But her kiss had hinted at more.

  “You empty-headed arse.” The shout cut through the din of the tavern and his own musings. Crispin sharpened his gaze and found the innkeeper hovering over the bookish boy. “Enough with those books.” He brought a hand up and thumped the boy on the back of his head.

  Fury pumped through him, bringing Crispin to his feet. “You there,” he barked.

  The room fell silent as several serving girls stepped aside, allowing Crispin a wide berth.

  His brow wrinkled with confusion, the innkeeper glanced around. The rail-thin lad behind him dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “What is this about?” Crispin demanded, stopping in front of the pair.

  The balding proprietor shoved the boy between the shoulder blades. His cheeks blanched of color, but then, he quickly found his footing. “Nothing to worry after here, your lordship,” he assured, before directing his annoyance again at the child. “Off with you,” he mumbled, swiping up the forgotten leather book. Its pages yellow, its bindings fraying, the book had been well-read and showed its age. “I don’t tolerate idle ones about.” He slapped the small tome against the back of the child’s head.

  Crimson rage descended over Crispin’s vision.

  Shoulders hunched, the child made to step around him.

  “That will be all,” Crispin commanded on a frosty whisper.

  The innkeeper’s enormous Adam’s apple moved.

  Settling a gentle hand on the boy’s small, narrow shoulder, Crispin guided him to a stop. “Is this the manner in which you treat your children?” he demanded of the proprietor.

  “He i-isn’t my boy, your l-lordship,” he stammered. Doffing his hat, he dusted it along his damp brow. “He’s my wife’s nephew. We took him in. He’s a mouth to feed, and he’ll do his part. Everyone who wants a bed and place to rest does. He’ll not have a—”

  Crispin raised a silencing hand, effectively cutting off the other man’s ramblings.

  He trained all his attention on the young boy. Except now, up close, he recognized his earlier assessment had been off. There was the hint of fuzz on the boy’s upper lip, hinting that he was on the cusp of manhood.

  “Look at his lordship,” the proprietor barked.

  Crispin shot him a hard look, and the other man instantly fell back. Shoulders slumped, the child lifted his eyes.

  Tired. Downtrodden. Fearful.

  They were Crispin’s eyes… but long ago.

  “A duke’s son, are you? If you’re so powerful, then this shouldn’t hurt.”

  Crispin’s gut clenched in remembered pain from the fists that had pummeled the breath from his lungs. He’d cried in a corner when everyone at Eton had slept on. Longing for home. For family. For Elizabeth. “What is your name?” he asked quietly.

  “Neville Barlow, Your Grace.”

  The innkeeper’s brows shot to his receding hairline. “A duke?” Spreading his arms wide, he dropped a deferential bow suited for the king.

  Ignoring him, Crispin focused on Neville’s latter words. “How did you ascertain I am a duke?” Unlike his mother, who insisted on displaying her status in her travels, Crispin had always preferred the anonymity afforded a simple “lord,” to the fawning and pomp and circumstance that met a duke’s every movement.

  Neville lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug. “Your driver, Your Grace, referred to you as such earlier.”

  The lad was clever and perceptive… and his spirit and soul would be as crushed as Crispin’s had been at Eton if he remained here with his uncle.

  “Give Mr. Barlow his book.” He issued the directive without so much as a glance for the innkeeper. When it was passed back to the boy’s hands, Crispin motioned to it. “May I?”

  Neville hesitated and then gave it over.

  Crispin examined the gilded title.

  “The Present Practice of Justices of the Peace and a Complete Parish Library,” the boy murmured, his voice cracking.

  “His Grace can read it for himself,” the proprietor snapped.

  “That will be all,” Crispin clipped out.

  Neville turned to go.

  “I was speaking to your uncle.”

  Splotches of red suffused the innkeeper’s cheeks. Then, with a bow, he shuffled off.

  The other man forgotten, Crispin lifted the book. “You are interested in law?”

  “My father was a barrister,” he explained, his voice threadbare.

  Crispin perched his hip on the edge of the table and examined the brown leather copy. “The book belonged to him, then.”

  Neville shuffled back and forth on his feet. “He insisted I read it.”

  “Is that why you’re doing so now?” He waved the book lightly. “Because you were expected to do what your father did? Or is it because you enjoy the topic?” Such had served as the basis of Crispin’s own existence. It had been broken up into his eventual ascension to the Huntington title… and everything else. Elizabeth had fallen into that hated latter category, when she’d deserved so much more… including a husband who would have cherished her and fought for her, if need be, in ways that Crispin had not.

  “The former, Your Grace,” Neville said.

  “Is there a specialty you enjoy more than another?” he pressed, returning the book.

  The boy’s shoulders straightened, and for the first time since he’d observed him in the corner, his eyes glimmered, showing something other than the earlier misery. “I enjoy it all. Tort law. Public law. I, however, rather prefer land law.” He fell silent, a blush staining his cheeks.

  “Peculiar ninny-hammer is what you are. Born to a dukedom, and you’d rather be reading than having yourself any real fun.”

  He stared at the child’s bent head.

  That was me. I was Neville. Conditioned to feel shame for his scholarly interests. His mother had lamented those pursuits. His father had tolerated them. Only Elizabeth had fully celebrated Crispin’s interests—and reveled in them alongside him.

  “There’s no shame to be had in academic interests.” Crispin echoed the long-ago utterance that Elizabeth had shot back at two nasty boys in Oxfordshire who’d taunted her for her studies. How much braver and prouder she’d been than he. Elizabeth had taught him to find pride and power in his love of knowledge. “Would you wish to pursue a career as a barrister?”

  “I had hoped to follow in my father’s footsteps, Your Grace,” Neville said automatically.

  Crispin smiled. “I wasn’t speaking hypothetically. My solicitor is getting on in years.” Old Chadwick had served the previous duke and been only ever married to his position. The faithful servant had at least a decade more of service before he put down his quill. “If you are interested in pursuing work as a barrister, I will arrange an apprenticeship with him. And from there, you might continue on to Oxford. If that is something you wish.”

  The boy’s mouth worked. “Are you funning me, Your Grace?” he whispered.

  Crispin’s lips quirked up at the corners. He didn’t mention that a sense of comedic humor was an attribute he was sorely lacking. “If you wish for the post”—he slapped him on the back—“it is yours. And if you do not—”

  “I want it,” the boy croaked. “I do. I want the post.”

  “Gather your things. We leave this place shortly.”

  As if he feared Crispin would change his mind and renege on the offer he’d just made, Neville bolted off, knocking into several patrons as he went.

  Several shouts went up.

  Then Neville stopped. Slightly out of breath, he rushed back. “Forgive me, Your Grace.” He sketched a deep bow.

&nb
sp; Crispin waved a hand. “There’s no need for that. See to your possessions.”

  With a wide grin, Neville darted off once more. There was a speed and determination to his steps that had matched Crispin’s when he’d been freed from the hells of Eton.

  He made to look away when his gaze caught on the willowy figure several paces away.

  And, just like it always had when she was near, the world melted away so that only they remained.

  Except, in light of the day’s revelations and unlike the past, when words had always flowed freely, he was left with—nothing. No adequate apologies or words, or even coherent thought.

  Abandoning his spot, Crispin joined her. “Good morning,” he greeted quietly. “You are—”

  “I heard what you did for that child,” she blurted.

  *

  His ears turned red, just as they’d done when he was a boy of nine bested by her in matches of spillikins. She’d unnerved him. That, however, had not been her intention.

  He’d come to the boy’s aid. Nay, he’d not only offered his ducal assistance, he’d pledged the child a future, should he desire it.

  “I did not do anything.” Adjusting the knot of his cravat, Crispin started for the door with Elizabeth falling quickly into step beside him, easily keeping up.

  And refusing to abandon her observation. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do you take me for an ogre now?” he asked dryly as he drew the door open. Cheerful sunlight spilled into the tavern.

  Elizabeth made no move to leave. “Of course not.” She angled her head, studying him the way she once had the albino butterfly that had fluttered for several short days in her mother’s gardens. “But neither do dukes go about and simply offer posts or an education at Oxford to strangers.”

  A patron started up the cobbled walk, springing them into movement. Elizabeth stepped outside.

  Crispin paused to hold the door for the patron before joining her.

  “You know very many dukes, do you?” he countered.

  “I know a duke’s daughter.” A soft breeze caught her hem and whipped it lightly about her ankles. “And through that, her father.” The Duke of Ravenscourt had left his miserable daughter, forgotten, at Mrs. Belden’s. And according to the not-so-discreet whispers that had filled the halls, the distinguished duke had also littered the whole of England with his bastards. “I’ve also had enough interactions with noblemen through the years to know they do not simply do anything without expecting something in return.”