Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  Why, then, did it hurt so damn much?

  But he had never shown his pain before. He was not about to start now. He grinned and executed a flourishing bow. “Obviously. I’m glad to see your advanced age has not taken away your powers of observation.”

  Her lips pressed into a harsh line before she recalled herself and her face smoothed once more. Anything to keep away the encroaching signs of aging, he thought with bitterness. Now that the initial shock was gone, he could see that the toil of time had not been held completely at bay. She was nearing six decades, after all, and her skin was beginning to show it. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, crossed the expanse of her forehead, and bracketed the corners of her mouth. Her hair, too, had not escaped the march of years. More than a few fine gray strands were worked through the deep brown.

  “I see you are just as charming as ever,” she said, acid leaching into her voice. Her sharp eyes took in his fine clothes with grudging interest. “Though it appears you have not been living a pauper’s existence. Where have you been all this time?”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth her lips twisted, as if the taste of the question offended her. Her curiosity must be great indeed for her to ignore her pride. He briefly welcomed the idea of stringing her along, refusing to answer, making her squirm.

  But although he had always enjoyed baiting her, he found that he was too damn tired for such games. This reunion was taking too much out of him. All he wanted was to finish with it, to escape from this place and put it behind him once and for all.

  He strode to a seat near his mother and sank down into it. She had not bid him to sit, and no doubt she never would. Well, to hell with that. He was not a youth any longer, desperate for her approval. “I have been to America,” he said. “To Boston.”

  Her eyes flared wide. “Whyever would you go and do a thing like that?”

  A sharp laugh burst from him. “England is not the center of the world, Mother.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said, with a surety that would have done any queen proud.

  But arguing would get him nowhere. He closed his eyes against a sudden pain in his head. “Where are my brothers? I would get the rest of these loving reunions out of the way so I may go back to living my life.”

  Instead of a sharp retort, however, there was only silence. A silence that was as heavy as it was dark. Funny that, for he had never thought a lack of sound could hold so much emotion. He opened his eyes to question his mother once again—perhaps she had grown hard of hearing as well. To his shock, however, she appeared utterly destroyed.

  He bolted upright in his seat and reached for her hand. It was a foreign thing, to touch her at all. And so he did not immediately realize how cold her fingers were. “What is it? Are you unwell?”

  The sound of his voice seemed to jolt her back to herself. Snapping her hand back from his touch, her lip curled ever so slightly, eyes blazing. “Of course I’m well. But what game are you playing? What do you mean, you wish to see your brothers?”

  His momentary worry transformed to anger of his own. “Why else would I come back after all this time but to see my family?”

  “You are cruel,” she spat.

  “What the devil are you talking about? How is it cruel to want to see them?”

  Realization dawned in her eyes as she took him in. “But…you don’t know then?”

  “Know what, precisely?”

  She shook her head, artfully arranged curls trembling in agitation. “But you have to know. It’s why you came back, surely.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” He tried to keep the words even. But unease had begun to bubble up in his gut, like a pot of water set to boil.

  Her next words, said with a cruelty that stunned him, had that pot boiling right over the edge.

  “You cannot see your brothers because they are, each and every one, dead in their graves.” Her lips stretched into a malicious smile. “And so it is only me to welcome you home, dear boy. Or should I say, Your Grace, the Duke of Reigate?”

  Chapter 3

  Mrs. Ingram,” Clara tried for what was probably the hundredth time since returning to Dane House from Lord and Lady Crabtree’s nearly an hour ago, “surely I can be of help somewhere.”

  “Help?” The housekeeper shook her head emphatically, even as she gently guided Clara out of the way of two maids carrying armfuls of linens. “My lady, I assure you I have everything well under control. Why, I started preparing for just such a contingency the moment Lord Oswin began courting our Lady Phoebe.”

  Of course she would. Clara let out a frustrated breath. The housekeeper had spent the better part of three decades making herself indispensable to the comfort of the Dukes of Dane; it should have been no surprise that she would have foreseen that such actions would be necessary, no matter that the news had completely surprised the rest of them. It also should not have surprised Clara that Mrs. Ingram would adamantly refuse her offers of help.

  “Now,” Mrs. Ingram continued with a distracted smile, her sharp eyes remaining fixed on the servants as they bustled about them in the upper hallway, “don’t worry your head any longer about any of this. Why don’t you have a nice rest in your rooms. I’m thinking you need it after the excitement of the past days.”

  And with that she was off, Clara already forgotten as she barked orders to two footmen carrying a chest to Phoebe’s rooms.

  Clara, well and truly dismissed, and knowing that any further attempts to make herself useful would only accomplish the opposite, heaved a sigh and made her way to her rooms. But instead of sitting herself down and occupying herself in pursuits deemed proper for a gentlewoman as Mrs. Ingram had no doubt intended, she strode to the windows and looked down into the verdant green that was the center of Grosvenor Square. Within the shady depths nannies held the hands of impatient toddlers, couples strolled arm in arm, young ladies giggled with heads bent together. It was a lively scene. Yet from the relative peace of her room, with only the muted sounds of work behind her closed door, she felt as if she were looking at a painting.

  No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? For out there was life. She was the painting, one-dimensional, lacking passion and warmth. Mere brushstrokes on canvas. And she would remain unchanging while the rest of the world moved on.

  She pressed her hand flat to the glass before her and dragged in a deep breath, trying to dislodge the maudlin thoughts—as well as to tamp down on the restlessness she felt for more than what she was destined. Goodness, but this wasn’t like her at all. Despite all that life had thrown at her, she had always managed to remain cheerful and useful. And she would find a way to be useful again. Her lips twisted. Somehow.

  She stood there for a time, feeling as if she were caught between two worlds, every lively interaction below or sound of busywork behind making her feel trapped until her body was nothing but a mass of tension. Unable to stand the inaction a moment longer, she pushed away from the window. Surely there was something she could do to be of benefit. A quick glance at the clock over the mantel told her the afternoon was quickly marching by. Her family was due to return soon from Lord and Lady Crabtree’s. No matter that she was not needed in the packing preparations, there was still much to do. Her sister’s wedding was only a month away, after all.

  She faltered at that. To her, Phoebe was still that child who used to dance to imaginary music and drag her dolls everywhere she went, not a woman about to be married. But after a moment, Clara squared her shoulders, marching out her bedroom door and through the upstairs hallway. Phoebe was a woman grown, and she’d best remember it. Now was the time for joy and hope. No matter that her heart grieved that life would never be the same.

  She hurried to the ground floor, her mind busy. Surely they would all appreciate a refreshing drink after being out on this overwarm day. She would go down to the kitchens, have something prepared for their return.

  Just as her feet hit the last tread, she heard a
pounding at the front door. With the butler in the attic directing his footmen in the removal of the trunks, Clara did not think twice about redirecting her steps. She reached the door just as another barrage of knocks sounded. In the back of her mind she recognized the desperate quality to the pounding, alerting her to the fact that this was no casual caller. Her hand, however, was late in getting the message, for it swung the door wide, to reveal—

  “Mr. Nesbitt,” she breathed.

  Goodness, how was it that her memories from just that morning did not do him justice? She drank him in as she had not allowed herself to earlier in front of Peter and Lenora. Sun-darkened skin, so much more attractive than the pale complexions of the men of London. Inky hair that fell in thick, unruly waves over his forehead. A lean form that exuded strength and a predatory grace. And those eyes. Heavens, but they were dark, so dark she thought she might lose herself in them and never find herself again.

  But what must he think of her, standing there staring at him as if he were a cream pastry. Cheeks flaming, she forced a smile. “Mr. Nesbitt. We did not expect to see you again until this evening.”

  “Ah, yes, my apologies, Lady Clara,” he mumbled, sketching a belated bow and scanning the hall behind her with barely concealed agitation. “I seem to have lost track of the time.”

  Not knowing what else to do, only knowing she could not leave him standing on the front step, Clara moved back. “Please, come in.”

  How was it, she thought a bit wildly as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, that the cavernous front hall could feel so intimate? The soft click of the latch, the sudden loss of bright daylight, the subsequent muffling of all outside noise made her even more aware of the tall, powerful man before her. Flustered, she looked about for something to do, and her eyes lit upon the side table nearby. Ah, yes, his outerwear. As she turned to Mr. Nesbitt, however, intending to ask him for his things, she realized he was not wearing any. His head was quite bare, his hands as well. Hands that were incredibly strong, yet appeared as if they could be gentle were the situation to call for it…

  Desperate to tamp down on her wandering thoughts, she blurted the first thing that came to her. “You have no outerwear.”

  He looked utterly perplexed. His hand went to his head, and he blinked when he found nothing there. “Ah, no, I suppose I don’t. Is Peter home?”

  The swift change of subject took her aback. “I’m sorry, but he’s not, though he should be returning shortly.” When he did nothing but nod morosely, his shoulders slumping almost in defeat, she took a step forward, lowering her voice. “Mr. Nesbitt, are you quite well?”

  For a moment he looked as if he might either laugh or cry. In the end he smiled. It was a wide thing, filled with his usual devilish charm. It might have made her lose her breath again had his eyes not appeared as if he were burning from the inside out.

  “Never better,” he proclaimed. “I don’t suppose I might wait for Peter?”

  Which she should have offered from the very beginning. She flushed. “Of course. Please, forgive my thoughtlessness. I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere. If you’ll follow me?”

  She turned and led the way up the stairs to the drawing room, stopping only to quietly direct a maid to bring a tray up. She cast a nervous glance out the window as she settled into a high-backed chair. Goodness, she hoped her family did not take much longer.

  It was only as she turned her gaze back to Mr. Nesbitt that she realized he had stopped next to a chair and was looking down at it as if he could not fathom what he was supposed to do with it.

  She offered him a strained smile. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  He cast her a blank look before blinking and focusing on her. “Ah, no, thank you. I think I’d rather stand.”

  She arched a brow. “I don’t know when Peter might return. It could be some time.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  Truly, the man was acting most odd. She frowned. “Are you certain you’re well, Mr. Nesbitt?”

  A strange noise seemed to issue from his throat, but beyond the faintest flicker of his dark eyes his face didn’t show the least change.

  “Quite well,” he said, before, with only the slightest hesitation, he abruptly sat. He seemed to mentally shake himself, his demeanor changing in an instant to one of polite inquiry. “But how was Lord and Lady Crabtree’s? Did you not attend the meeting with them?”

  Again the sudden about-face. It could not have been more obvious that the man was trying his best to keep the conversation far away from his well-being. Very well, she would not press.

  “I did,” she said, “though I was sent home early by Margery after the pertinent information regarding the wedding was gone over.”

  “Were you not feeling well?”

  “Oh, I’m quite fit, thank you,” she said in what she hoped was not an overly bright manner. There was no way she was going to tell this man that she had been forced to leave because she had been distracted by thoughts of him.

  He nodded, and she nodded. And the silence that fell was the loudest she had ever heard in her life.

  Tangling her fingers together to keep from creasing her skirts, she blurted, “Peter says you are to leave England soon?”

  He seemed relieved she had said anything at all, for he latched onto it with enthusiasm.

  “Ah, yes. That’s correct, I’m to begin my travels.” In the next moment, however, his face darkened, the excitement that had overtaken his features replaced with something akin to desolation.

  He cleared his throat. “And your sister, she is to marry soon?”

  Which was the most painful topic he could have stumbled upon, at least after her unwelcome feelings for himself. “Er, yes. Yes she is.”

  Again silent nodding on both their parts. She blew out a frustrated breath. Really, one of them had to give. But she had spent a decade and a half redirecting even the most innocuous conversations away from herself. If anyone would win this, it was she.

  Unfortunately he seemed to have the same idea in mind.

  “Do you miss Boston?”

  “I do. Do you miss Danesford?”

  “Yes. Do you have plans while in London?”

  “Somewhat. When does your sister marry?”

  “In a month. Peter mentioned you have family here in town?”

  “I do. Will you live with your sister or return to Danesford?”

  “I’m not certain. When do you leave on your journeys?”

  He slumped in his seat, as if the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders. “I hardly know,” he muttered, looking defeated.

  She frowned. “You don’t know when your trip will begin?”

  He shook his head. “I had planned…But plans change, don’t they?”

  Yes,” she answered cautiously when his dark eyes found hers. “Yes, they can change, quite unexpectedly at times.”

  He let loose a sharp laugh, making her jump. Goodness. Earlier that afternoon he’d been his usual self, cheerful and teasing. Now, however, he appeared quite altered. It was almost as if he was in the beginning stages of grief.

  In an instant her own worries were forgotten. That was it. She could see it in his eyes, the slight glazed look that spoke of a recent tragedy. Her heart ached for him, for there was no doubt he was suffering.

  She leaned forward. “I know you came to speak to Peter, but if you should need an ear to bend in the interim, I’m here,” she murmured gently, laying her hand over his.

  Too late, she remembered he was not wearing gloves. And neither was she.

  A warm current snapped, searing her palm. Though the suddenness and strength of it shocked her, she was unable to pull back. Gradually, as if through a tunnel, she heard a harshly indrawn breath. She thought for a moment it was her own. But no, her breath was caught in her chest. The sound came from Mr. Nesbitt.

  Before she could make heads or tails of his reaction—surely he could not feel even a modicum of what she did—he gently pulle
d his hand away.

  She should feel relief. He at least was of a clearer frame of mind and saw just how improper her forward manner had been. Instead a strange feeling of loss came over her.

  Thankfully a maid arrived with the tea tray, giving her just the thing she needed to collect herself. She had been lady of her father’s house for years; putting on the mantle of hostess was like shrugging into a comfortable coat. A coat that gave her some much needed protection against the effect that Mr. Nesbitt had on her.

  “How do you take your tea?”

  There was a beat of silence. She refused to look up at him. Eventually—finally—he spoke. “Sugar please.”

  She nodded, still not looking at him, busying herself with pouring the beverage. A job that took her far longer than normal, perhaps. She glanced up when she handed him the cup and froze. His dark eyes were intent on her, a small line between his brows. She fought the urge to look in the mirror on the far wall to make certain she wasn’t sprouting feathers or something equally outrageous from her head.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “Not at all,” he hastened to assure her. But his strange perusal did not abate.

  She cleared her throat, nervous fingers flying up to pat her hair. “Are you certain?”

  “Perhaps you can help answer something for me.”

  She blinked. “Ah, of course. What is it you wish to know?”

  “If a person is set to inherit a title, and doesn’t want that title, how can he go about refusing it?”

  Well, that was certainly unexpected. She frowned. “But…Peter has already accepted the dukedom.” There had been a time, of course, when her cousin had not wanted anything to do with her father’s title. But the wounds of the past had been healed, and he had taken to the position with a drive that had surprised everyone.

  “I was not referring to Peter but to…someone else I know.”

  “Someone from Boston?” she asked doubtfully. Truly, what were the chances of the man knowing two aristocrats in America who did not want to take up their responsibilities?