The Only One

by Samanthya Wyatt

“You allow it.”

  “Leave off, Morgan.”

  “You continue to allow your father dominance. To govern your life.”

  A sharp sting of acknowledgement targeted the truth of Morgan’s words. Giles disregarded them. “I trusted very little in my life until I met you. We became friends. I grow weary of repeating myself.”

  Morgan’s brow rose in skepticism. “As your friend—”

  “As an earl,” Giles interrupted, “you know the dictates of your station. I am a duke. A duke must cleave to the strictest rules of society.”

  “Rules instilled by your father. You can do any bloody thing you set your mind to.”

  “As it happens, I cannot escape my nobility, or what is expected of me. I will marry and produce the required heir.”

  Morgan shoved out of his chair and trudged to the hearth. With an arm braced on the mantel, he stared into the fire. Flames blazed, sparks popping from the burning wood. He swung to Giles with narrowed lids. Oft times his friend would do that. Study, dissect, speculate—an indication he had an inkling of someone hiding a secret. His mind was a well-oiled machine and once Morgan had the idea between his teeth, he would gnaw away like a dog with a large bone.

  “Give it up, old man,” Giles said with a disheartened sigh. “This is my life. You have a wonderful marriage with a lovely woman.”

  His own future loomed dark and empty. He wished, resentfully, he could slide into blessed unconsciousness. Suddenly aware of how much he’d imbibed, he reached for the bottle beside Morgan’s chair. The little amount remaining confirmed his suspicions. “Think we need another bottle.” He rose and took a moment to steady his legs. “Bloody hell. I must have consumed a good amount before your timely arrival.”

  “No more for me. Kat will have my hide if I go home foxed.”

  “You can handle your whiskey, my good man. I’ve seen you drink me under the table.”

  “Do you think perhaps you should conquer your demons before you bring a woman into the mix of things?”

  “A duke must have a proper wife. I’ll ask Katherine to help me with an assortment for my selection.”

  “You jest.” Morgan grunted his astonishment.

  “Why would I quip about something so serious as a wife?” Giles held a new bottle aloft. “See what I mean. You have a bride to keep you on the straight and narrow. Do I not deserve the same thing?”

  “You deserve to be happy. Maybe take some time in choosing a woman to spend the rest of your life with.”

  “Not all men marry for love, my friend.”

  “I once felt the same as you. But life with the right woman can be fulfilling indeed.”

  “For God’s sake. You’ll find no pulpits in this dwelling. And if they are, I’ll burn them along with my father’s portrait in the morning.”

  “The devil you say.”

  “I do say.” Giles swung his gaze to his sire’s painting and held up his glass in a toast. “Enjoy your last night as oppressor. For tomorrow you go to a fiery grave.”

  Morgan shoved from the hearth and took the brandy from Giles’ hand. “I think we’ve had enough of this.” He placed the bottle on the table along with his glass. “I’m off.”

  “Are you seriously taking my drink away from me in my own home?”

  “Go to bed, Giles. I’ll be back in the morning. I want a clear head for our discussion.”

  Giles angled a brow. “Am I to presume you are suggesting a reason other than a friendly visit?”

  “There is more than just your father haunting you this night.” Morgan gathered his coat and gloves and strode through the door.

  God’s blood.

  Galling as it was, Morgan would probe and press until Giles revealed all. Yes, they were more than friends. They’d survived countless missions where each had depended on the other for their very life. Tomorrow morning, the man more important to him than an arm or a leg, would split his heart open and make him bleed.

  Lifting the glass, ruby and amber lights reflected from the firelight. He swiped a hand over his unshaven, whiskered face. He could drown in drink, tasting nothing but remorse, and Alex’s image would still remain fresh in his mind. Oh yes, he had fought, succumbed, and then deceived.

  He mustn’t think of her mischievous smile or those kissable lips. How her eyes fired in temper and glowed in passion. How her pale blonde hair shimmered like sunshine radiating off a mellifluous cloud. Her soft skin as smooth as the finest China silk. Or how she clutched him when he was buried deep inside her.

  Christ. Now he had something else to drown out.

  He would never accept his visit to America as simply a pleasant pastime. After all, he had asked to marry the girl. Like it or not, nothing could come of their association—since her father made it very plain his daughter would not be leaving her home. Yet his heart splintered at the thought of never seeing her again. He shuddered with the knowledge that a mere slip of a girl had brought him to his knees.

  Fate had dealt him a cruel blow. He would give anything to have her in his life. But Alex’s father was right. She belonged with her family. He would not pry her away. He refused to be responsible for the separation. And he’d be damned if he’d willingly subject himself to the pain when she asked to go home.

  Fate.

  He’d left a slice of his soul behind. Although his love for her would never die, he must move on. He would marry. Not for love. Very few marriages were a result of love. Half the women in England would happily settle for a position as the new Duchess of Nethersall. He would begin his search immediately. He didn’t need anyone’s approval—sure as hell not Morgan’s.

  Giles strode to the hearth, leaning a forearm upon the mantle. He spoke in a tone as raw and searing as the red embers on the charred wood.

  “Do your worst, my friend. Even if I bare my soul, destiny has decided for me.”

  Chapter 22

  Giles’ impulse to visit his gentlemen’s club in hopes of a distraction had been doomed from the idea. His hopes to forget Alex, of course, were impossible.

  True to his vow, he’d taken down his father’s portrait. As for burning the damned thing, he’d reconsidered. Generations of dukes lined the ancestral hall of Castle Nethersall. Following sequence, Giles’ own portrait was the next to take his father’s place above the mantle.

  Alex. Now there would have been a true work of art, if her portrait hung above the fireplace. He had imagined gazing at her loveliness for hours on end. However, a duke must adhere to his duty. He couldn’t have the portrait of his lover hanging on a wall where his wife could see. His private chamber would have been a better place. But therein lay the problem. He had no portrait, no painting. No likeness of the woman he loved. Only her exquisite image, burned into his mind long ago.

  After months of hell bordering on despair, he decided to heed his own words. To beget a wife, one had to go through the motions. Almacks be damned, he made a bargain with Horace Pendorgrass and now he would wed his daughter.

  Giles could not afford weakness. Not when years of anguish and rage had led him to this pivotal point.

  Even with Morgan at his side, Giles’ announcement of his intentions—taking the plunge into matrimony—caused the men around him to fall silent while conversation droned in the background. In a circle of leather upholstered chairs, Giles gazed at each man. A cigar hung precariously from Witherspoon’s mouth. Carstairs’ eyes nearly bulged from his head. Hatheridge sputtered, his drink dripping from his chin.

  “A wife? Are your wits addled? Do tell what you have done with the real Duke of Nethersall.” Carstairs downed his glass and signaled for another.

  “Bloody hell, Nethersall,” Witherspoon croaked.

  Roxborough’s dark brows lifted above the edge of his newspaper. “Upon my word, Nethersall. What is thi
s?”

  “The clock is ticking.” Legs extended, Giles studied the toe of his black hessians. “I need an heir to pass the dukedom.”

  “I’d rather have a hot poker stuck in my eye,” Hatheridge mumbled.

  “One day you may change your mind.” Roxborough gave a nod.

  “May I never be that desperate.”

  “Desperate, you say. Marriage does not have to be a prison.” Witherspoon shifted in his chair, flicking his cigar into the crystal bowl. “Look on the bright side.”

  “There’s a bright side?” Hatheridge quipped.

  “Of course there is a bright side.”

  “Well I for one fail to see it,” Carstairs added.

  “Nethersall can simply deposit his wife at his country estate, and then hie back to London to enjoy life.”

  “Capital idea,” Carstairs agreed, then nodded to Giles. “And I know for a fact, you have several.”

  “Several what?” Sedgewick threw back his tails, and gracefully lowered his tall frame in the last seat remaining in their circle. He made a grand show of pulling on the cuff of his sleeves. “What have I missed?”

  “You’re late, Sedgewick. What kept you?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Lord Hardwicke’s widow, no doubt.” Carstairs gave a knowing smirk.

  Sedgewick smiled, neither admitting nor denying his whereabouts.

  “Nethersall has just announced his plans to marry.”

  “Why in God’s name would you do that?” Sedgewick’s brows raised to his hairline.

  “Another who agrees women are a plague upon men,” Hatheridge crowed.

  “The proverbial heir,” Witherspoon muttered as he knocked ash from his cigar.

  “Oh. An heir, of course. But it still flabbergasts the mind.” Sedgewick shrugged and swung to Carstairs. “So the several I heard you mention would be several candidates, hmm?”

  “Several estates.” Carstairs lifted his glass for another drink.

  “Poor show, my good man, to make fun when I have missed most of the conversation. Would you care to enlighten me?”

  “As Nethersall has several estates, he can deposit his new wife in any one of them.”

  “I see.” Sedgewick relaxed back against his leather chair and crossed his boot over one knee. “Tuck the little woman out of sight and out of your hair?”

  “Exactly,” Witherspoon added. “The one farthest away from London would be my choice.”

  “A man could conceivably change his mind. Am I not the example of wedded bliss?” Roxborough smiled with contentment, for he loved his wife as much as Morgan loved Kat.

  “Nonsense,” Carstairs huffed. “A man can’t let frivolous emotions control his destiny. Can’t you see Nethersall has the proper idea of marriage one should? A man does not dwell on the attributes of a bride the way one chooses a mare for his stable.”

  The bloody fools had no idea of the nonsense they spouted.

  “You’re saying I should pick my prize mare with more relish than I should a bride?” Declaring his plans, Giles had expected ridicule. Having his cronies discuss how he should choose a bride chafed on the raw.

  “My mother has been crowing for me to pick a wife,” Sedgewick announced. “She’s dragging me to Almack’s next week. Perhaps we can go together, old man.”

  Hatheridge choked on his brandy.

  “What is the matter with you, pup?” Sedgewick slapped him on the back.

  “I thought we were in agreement on the matter of marriage. You just said—”

  “I said Mother was dragging me to Almack’s. I never said I was going to pick a bride.” He glanced to the ceiling in thought. “Hmm. A wife of good stock. Noble birth. ‘Tis a bit like picking a horse, I suppose.”

  “Do you check her teeth?”

  “Glad to see you got your wind back,” Sedgewick told Hatheridge.

  “Of course.” Carstairs cleared his throat. “A man takes pride in the horseflesh he owns.”

  “Should not a man take pride in his wife?” Giles raised a brow.

  “For appearances’ sake, yes,” Hatheridge agreed. “But a man loves his horses. A good steed, a good ride.”

  “Hatheridge. Cannot a wife give a good ride?” Witherspoon crowed.

  Guffaws sounded around the room, verifying others listened in on their conversation.

  “A wife is to be above reproach.” Sedgewick reached inside his coat pocket for a cigar. “She is the adornment on a man’s sleeve. If you want a good ride, get a mistress.”

  “A wife may object to such a notion,” Morgan pointed out.

  “She may object all she wants, Whetherford. It’s none of a wife’s affair if a husband has a dozen mistresses.” At Morgan’s glower, Carstairs quickly amended, “Of course, not every man is besotted with his wife the way you are.”

  “And not all wives are as comely as Lady Whetherford.” Witherspoon received a glower of his own. “Come now, Whetherford. All work and no play makes for a very dull life.”

  “I’ll wager his wife keeps him on his toes. Won’t give him time for—”

  “I will kindly thank you to keep your tongue behind your teeth and away from my wife or I will gladly remove it.”

  Carstairs sputtered, “No insult, old chum.”

  Witherspoon placed his cigar in the glass bowl. “Let’s drink to Nethersall finding the right woman.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Sedgewick raised his glass.

  “To debutantes and their matchmaking mamas,” Carstairs said as he lifted his glass.

  “May she be a sweet little miss who doesn’t bore him to tears.” Sedgewick saluted again.

  “A weak-willed light-o-love,” Carstairs added and presented his own glass.

  “A soft-spoken woman who will leave him in peace.” Witherspoon lowered his voice and added, “If there is such a creature to be had.”

  “A paragon who does not have an old dragon for a mother.” Sedgewick was getting into the spirt of toasts.

  “Much rather have a feisty woman like my paramour.” Hatheridge’s words slurred, but his voice was loud enough to be heard.

  “For a wife?” Carstairs choked.

  “Good God, no. I’m remaining single until my dying day.”

  “He has a point.” Witherspoon faced Carstairs. “Where is it written a wife cannot enjoy the marriage bed?”

  “If that were the case, men would not have mistresses,” Sedgewick declared.

  Morgan chuckled.

  “A mistress is fine until the veneer begins to crack.” Roxborough did not have a mistress, but he joined in the toasts.

  “You could show a bit more passion for your bride-to-be, Nethersall.” Witherspoon gestured with his glass signaling for Giles to join in the spirit of things.

  “If you have any doubts about this, then don’t.” Morgan’s caution interrupted Giles’ musing.

  Surrender—a word not in his vocabulary. At least, not until now. A duke must accept his fate, accommodate his new wife. Yield to another. How the thought tasted like bile.

  “No doubts. I must have a wife. And Miss Pendorgrass is my choice.”

  “That empty-headed doll?”

  Witherspoon kicked Sedgewick in the foot.

  “Good God, Witherspoon, what—?”

  “The girl is beautiful. Excellent choice.” Witherspoon signaled for Sedgewick to shut his mouth.

  “The girl’s father is recognized for his proceedings in Parliament. A match with his daughter is acceptable to me.”

  “What about her dragon of a mother?” Sedgewick received another kick. He turned to Witherspoon with a harsh glare.

  “Horace Pendorgrass is ambitious. He is a proud man. Not one bit of scandal has been connected with the Pe
ndorgrass name. His daughter is an excellent choice.” Roxborough gave a nod of approval.

  “Then we shall toast Nethersall’s betrothal.” Witherspoon folded his paper and placed it on the table at his elbow. He held up a glass of port.

  “A beautiful dimwit . . . er . . . chit the ton will accept.”

  Carstairs and Sedgewick had pinned Harriett dead to rights. A meek, docile, mindless chit. Was this what he wanted? An adornment for his sleeve? If so, Harriett embodied an excellent choice. She’d been trained in every art, accepted among the ton, her character beyond reproach—yes, perfect.

  With three daughters to marry off, Pendorgrass needed the quid to ensure his offspring’s financial stability. With what he would receive from Giles, Harriett’s sisters would shine in all their glory at the next coming out ball.

  True, this marriage would not be based on affection. A duke’s title assured the best match for Pendorgrass’ daughter, and Harriett had been groomed to be a lady in every aspect, accepting a man of her father’s choosing.

  No, Giles would not wed for love. An heir for the dukedom must be provided, therefore he must tie the knot. Even if it felt like a noose around his neck.

  Eyes the color of molasses and surrounded by a golden cloud of tresses flashed before his mind. If Alex were his wife, there would never be a mistress. He had no right to lust after a woman other than his wife. Yet, his future bride-to-be could not create a surge of passion the way Alex . . .

  Damn and blast!

  Giles quickly shook off his line of thinking before doldrums had a chance to take hold.

  “I’m in a hell of my own making.”

  The buzz around him stopped. He cursed himself for speaking aloud.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind.” Witherspoon broke the silence.

  “Of course not,” Hatheridge nearly bellowed. “See the right of it, Giles. You can beg off.”