The Duke's Second Chance

by Jen Geigle Johnson

  They pulled in front of the townhome, and Gerald bounded down before the footman could open the door for him. If he must face all in the house, let it be done. Perhaps if he hurried, the hours would pass quickly.

  After an interminable afternoon and then evening, with everyone simply going through the motions of polite interaction, Gerald said, “I do think it’s time for bed, do you not agree?”

  “Oh, certainly Gerald dear.” His mother approached and patted his cheek when he stood. “We’re here for you my son. And tomorrow I’ve invited friends.”

  “Friends? I don’t feel up for a social call; surely mother…”

  “This is more than a social call. We shall discuss it tomorrow. Now, don’t you worry. Olivia and I have a plan to make things right.”

  He hadn’t the energy to decipher his mother’s sentiment at the moment so he simply bent his head to receive her kiss, received the same from his sister, bowed to the room, saluted to Morley and walked the long journey to his and Camilla’s room.

  But the closer he got, the heavier his feet felt until he couldn’t walk another step toward the room and instead turned around to walk away from it. His feet moved faster and quicker still until he was running down the entry hall, and out the held-open door. He ran down the street, and round the corner toward Whites. No, it would be crowded. People would look at him. He must go where no one knew him, where he could hide for a moment and pretend.

  Lights flickered in a small pub on the right. He reached the door and stepped inside. The place was warm and cheery, and pink, and floral.

  An amused looking young woman nodded. “Hello.”

  “This isn’t a pub.”

  Her laugh brightened the darkest recesses of his desperate heart. “No, it’s not, love.”

  He looked around him. Lace table coverings. “Tea room?”

  She tapped her nose. “You guessed it.”

  Disappointment filled him. “Well, now, what are you doing open at this hour?”

  “I guess I was just holding it open for you. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  He opened his mouth, ready to refuse, but then closed it again. Tea would be just the thing, in this quiet place, and the woman’s voice had a cheery quality to it. No pitying stares, just a sort of friendly indifference. “There is nothing I would like more at this moment.”

  A pleased smile lit her face. “Then I’ll have it right up.” She wiped hands on her apron and moved towards the rear of the store.

  Gerald sat in the nearest chair. It was made of stiff wood, painted in the usual patterns of the day. He wondered if the newest debutantes donated chairs to this shop. Each one was completely unique from another and looked to his untrained eye, to have been painted by a debutante.

  He breathed deeply, leaned back and closed his eyes. Quiet.

  China clinked in gentle sounds, and he opened his eyes.

  “I thought you were asleep.” Her kind eyes sparkled at him.

  “No, just enjoying the quiet.”

  The woman poured his tea. “How do you take it?”

  “Today, I think just black.”

  “No sugar? No cream to soften the blow?”

  His eyes shot to her face. Could she know what he was dealing with? And suddenly her compassion was his undoing. Instead of wanting to remain anonymous, he wanted her to understand. Without a care, he allowed the tears to well up in his eyes. “I’ve lost someone who was my whole world. Four months have gone by, and I don’t know where I belong.”

  To his great astonishment, her eyes welled up and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “That is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard anyone say. She was blessed to have you, to be sure.” She pulled out a chair. “May I?”

  He nodded.

  “Would you tell me about her?”

  And he found that this precise thing was what his heart most craved. As he described his beloved Camilla, pieces of his life started to move closer to their right places in his mind, and his heart began a path to mend.

  When he described how they’d met at his cousin’s ball and he’d asked her to dance by mistake, their laughter mingled with their tears. Who was this woman who could feel the emotions of another so poignantly? When he talked of the day they found out she was pregnant, his heart ached anew, knowing now where that day would lead.

  “And is the babe as beautiful as she?” The woman meant to continue enjoying their conversation, meant to be helpful, but the question sent Gerald to a jarring return to the present—the blame, the guilt, the immense hole in his life where Camilla wasn’t and this new child was. He irrationally wanted to shun her, to stand and leave the shop post haste.

  But she waited for a response, her kind, unsuspecting eyes ready to commune more with him. She had been such a gift to his torn apart heart that he attempted to respond. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him really.” He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. But she was silent for so long, that he allowed his gaze to flicker up into hers.

  The kindness and the real emotion he saw, brought tears to his eyes anew. She reached for his hand.

  He allowed her to take his in her own, gloveless, calloused hands. She just held it. Every now and then she’d pat the top with her other hand. Then she said, in almost a whisper. “My mama died. And now I finally understand why my papa brushed me aside for a time.” The pain in her eyes tore at him. But a fiery indignation rose up, fueled by the pain. “You could never understand. Unless you also have lost the love of your heart?”

  She blinked back tears and shook her head.

  He pulled his hand away. “Then you don’t know.”

  She stood. “That may be true. But your child is all you have left of Camilla.” She turned from him, carrying the tea tray with her.

  He assumed he was dismissed. But he lingered a few moments more, in the quiet and empty tea room. What a gift this time had been. What a remarkable woman. He pondered what she had told him, about his son. Pain tore at him anew. He wasn’t ready, not yet. But he knew one day he would be. One day he would cling to that boy. One day he might look into his son’s eyes, see Camilla’s, and not flinch away in raw grief.

  As he left the door and turned to look one last time into the shop, he thought he saw movement duck away in the back. Whoever she was, he would be grateful for the gift of this time.

  3

  Amelia Dickson watched, her eyes peeking around the back corner of her father’s store, until the gentleman moved out of sight. She wrapped hands around her middle and leaned back against the wall for support. “Oh. My.” She breathed. His words had been so beautiful. His face—she’d never seen anything like his face. Perfect skin. She frowned. His eyes drawn in such deep sorrow. Sharp jawline, a defined nose. She always felt that a nose made a man. She had no patience for the small and weak noses. And his stature. She’d never conversed with someone who, even in grief, owned the world. And his grief was so intense. Her face pinched in pain again, thinking of it. If his loss was anything like when she lost her mother, it would be a long time before he felt like there was a purpose in the world for him. Her heart went out to him.

  And to complicate the emotions that coursed through her at such a rapid pace, when they’d looked into each other’s eyes, she’d wanted to melt on the spot. They connected. Their very souls matched. She kept her hand on the wall to steady herself as she moved. Could their souls have matched? Or was she confusing her own compassion for his grief?

  She squinted her eyes, trying to remember the words of her grandmother. She’d often said. “Some souls match. When the Great Carpenter created them, He cut them from the same pattern. And if they meet, they will always feel like they belong together.”

  Was he Amelia’s match? Her soul match might rest in the heart of a gentleman? A gentleman. And one who was suffering at the loss of his love, possibly his own soul match which obviously wasn’t Amelia. Of all the hopeless places to find one’s soul match. Of course, she knew matches didn’t have to marry. They could ma
ke their own ways in the world. Her grandmother had told her so often enough. But even knowing they could never be together, knowing she’d possibly found one somehow made her feel more whole than she ever had. The thought filled her with a completeness that wiped out the loneliness of her current situation.

  She stood away from the wall, taking off her apron. She needed to get upstairs. Her father would wonder what had kept her. He’d started this tea shop because her mother had always wanted one. They built it on the very location of his family’s bakery that had sat here for many decades. He’d told her the story a thousand times. And he had made their shop really successful, right here near Grosvenor Square. But he rarely descended the stairs any more. Amelia did most of the work around the place now, she and their staff.

  As her feet moved up the stairs, slowly, she relived every moment with the stranger. It was perhaps for the best she never learned his name. They could never be. No matter how she felt such a connection, she could never seek him out or hope for more. She shook her head, thinking of his loss. His grief was so tender. The way he talked of his wife sent happy gooseflesh up and down her arms. Deep inside she suspected no one would ever be so eloquent in their expression of love for herself.

  She shrugged. No matter. It was almost as beautiful hearing the sentiments about someone else. And the poor babe. He would learn to accept his child, just as her father had accepted her. Hopefully he would do so before too many years went by.

  “Amelia?” Her father’s voice sounded weak to her ears.

  “Yes, Papa. We are all closed up.” She found him sitting in his favorite chair watching out the window at the street below.

  “Your Mama would be proud of you.”

  Perhaps because of the tone of the conversation she just left, Amelia’s eyes welled up. “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. You are everything she hoped her daughter would be.” He choked up on the last word and reached an older, wrinkled hand out to cover hers. “I should have told you every day since then.”

  She leaned over her father and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Father.” The sweetness of his love wrapped itself around her, and she smiled.

  They sat together for a few minutes more and then her father made his way to bed. But Amelia found it nearly impossible to sleep. And suddenly, an old passion resurfaced and she went in search of her charcoals and drawing papers. Lighting two candles, she set up an easel and began her sketch. Long ago, when she had an instructor, she always drew her mother’s likeness from the one image her father had of her. But tonight, her thoughts turned immediately to her visitor. She suspected that if she could somehow draw her feelings, sketch them, that she would at last understand this foreign erratic beating of her heart, the tingling in her hands where she held his, and the urge to run after him in the dark.

  Bold lines scratched on the paper, seeking an outline of his face. She smudged edges, rounded sharp lines, and accentuated his nose.

  Late into the night, when the sketch had finally taken on a life of its own, she stared deeply into his eyes and knew that somehow, she’d lost her heart to a stranger.

  4

  All night, morning, and much of the afternoon passed before Gerald had any desire to participate in the household. But he joined them for tea in the front room. His mother, sister, and Morley sat close, and his mother poured. “I’ve invited someone to come over.”

  Gerald held his cup at his lips, pausing. Something in his mother’s tone warned him. “Oh?”

  She sniffed. One never knew what she meant by her sniffs, but this one seemed decisive. “Yes, Lady Rochester. She’s recently widowed and almost out of mourning.”

  Alarm cascaded through him, and he stood before he placed his tea cup down. It sloshed all down his hand.

  A servant immediately came to his aid with a handkerchief.

  Panic raced through him and memories of Camilla filled him. “Mother.” Gerald thought his tone would be sufficient to squelch any further conversation.

  “Now, don’t you say anything. You need someone to run your households and manage the affairs of your heir. You and she don’t even have to abide together; you don’t have to talk to one another except when you must organize your lives; this estate needs a duchess.”

  Morley shook his head. “Your Grace, surely your words are wise, but the timing—”

  “Tosh. She will be snatched up next week. If we don’t move now, she will be gone.” She held up her finger. “She’s the most amiable sort of woman, in your same situation, and has no emotional expectations or attachments for a love match.”

  And immediately her words gave him pause. No expectations. Gerald considered. This would not be the last conversation his mother would attempt on the subject regarding any number of women. What if the next woman would expect a real relationship with him. Never. He could not betray his dear Camilla’s memory. As long as he didn’t think of this Lady Rochester as his wife…he shuddered again. No. Never as his wife, but as a duchess for his estate, a caretaker for his child… An immense feeling of relief filled him. Before three breaths had left his body, he gave up on denying his mother the visit. Perhaps if he just let the women manage his affairs, all would be well. “When is she coming?”

  “On the hour.”

  “And does she currently have any expectations?”

  “Not at all, although I would guess she suspects something, given the timing of our invitation, her recent loss and yours. She, but a few weeks from the completion of her mourning.” She toyed with her ribbons. Gerald had rarely seen his mother toy with anything. His concern rose when she said, “I may have mentioned something…”

  “She might be as opposed as I am wont to be.”

  “The staff don’t think so.”

  “The staff? What can they know about her inclinations?”

  “They say that she was not overly attached to her husband and that he has left her with substantial wealth and holdings and not a drop of sorrow.”

  Gerald thought that odd, but he was curious to see what kind of woman his mother was trying to finagle into his life. And the truth of the matter being that ever since his time in the tea room, he’d been feeling guilty about his aversion to his son. His own son. But he didn’t know what to do about it, and the child needed someone to care for him.

  “Have we—named the child yet?”

  “Named the child? Your heir?” His mother’s tone seeped in a disapproving bile.

  “Yes, Mother. We all know to which child I’m referring. Has anyone named it?”

  “Of course not—”

  His sister moved to sit beside him on the settee. “We all knew that one day you would want to be the one to name him.”

  “I best be about that, shouldn’t I? Can’t have this new woman here, the nursemaids and governesses alike, not knowing what to call him.”

  “Just so.” Morley clapped him on the back. “Have you given it any thought?”

  He hated to say it, but he hadn’t. “I’ve been distracted.”

  “Of course. So, how about a nice strong name like Nicholas?”

  “Nicholas Morley, to be exact?”

  Morley sat taller. “Yes. You can tell him to be like Uncle Nicholas.”

  “I can’t think of another I’d rather him be like, but I do believe Father’d have a disruption of his slumber and come haunt us all if the child didn’t in some way carry the old Duke’s name.”

  “And your own.”

  “And my own.” Gerald thought for a moment more. “Let’s name him Richard Gerald Campbell, the future Duke of Granbury.” His mother and sister clapped. And for a moment, the mood in the room was light, friendly. After a leisurely conversation Gerald almost enjoyed, the footman entered. “A lady Rochester to see you.”

  They all stood.

  Gerald watched the door in a dreadful curiosity.

  A woman, small in build, short in stature, stepped into the room.

  Gerald exhaled his pent up breath
in relief. She looked nothing like Camilla and there was nothing attractive about her either. She might do just fine. He stepped forward and reached for her hand. “Thank you for coming Lady Rochester. I understand that you too are in mourning. I appreciate you making this exception.”

  She nodded and returned his bow with a curtsy of her own. “I am, though it’s been almost a year for me. I’m terribly sorry to hear of your loss.”

  He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  His mother moved forward and kissed her cheeks.

  Then his sister did as well.

  Lady Rochester indicated a woman who entered the room. “And this is my Aunt Bethany Spilling.”

  The older woman nodded to them all as she rose from her curtsey. “A pleasure to meet you all. In our states of grief.” She dabbed her eyes. “What a terrible to do.”

  They settled in their seats, his mother poured more tea, and Gerald watched the newcomers. But he couldn’t abide their presence for long. He began counting shoes to pass the time and imagined up all the ways he could leave.

  Until his mother said, “And the two of you, no need to make your way alone in the world when you could go on about it together.”

  Gerald nearly choked. “Mother, surely there is no need to be discussing such things in an open manner.”

  Lady Rochester replace her cup in its saucer. “Thank you, Your Grace, but do not be overly concerned on my account. I find such frankness refreshing. I, for one, am not seeking companionship so much as I need the distraction that managing an estate grants me. And I imagine that his grace, will not have need for companionship at all from me and might be grateful if I were to take up some of the more tedious tasks of managing things, running the house, caring for the child.” She dabbed her eyes. “In those ways, I feel our needs might be well matched.”

  He choked back a breath that he sucked in too quickly. Who was this woman in her almost alarming frankness? His mother and she were obviously in cahoots, but what next?

  “He will rather I mind my way and he his, but that I take care of things so that he doesn’t have to. At least for a time.” She smiled, and Gerald felt as if a halo of relief had shone down on her face.