When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  She held nothing back. As in all things, she was fearless.

  Had she not been a friend, had he not cared about her, he would have done exactly what he’d predicted a man who didn’t love her would—he would have taken her to the verdant grass and had his way with her. He would have slowly loosened her buttons, her ties, her bows. He would have bared her body—

  His mind came to a screeching halt. Grace. These lustful thoughts centered on Grace.

  She wanted love. He could give her lust in abundance, but not love. He had closed his heart to the possibility. He would never again experience the devastating pain of loss. He would not love. He would not.

  Perhaps you never truly did love.

  How he wished that were true, because he was so damned tired of the agony of loss. He never wanted to experience it again. It wasn’t just losing the physical presence of Juliette and Margaret. It was losing the memory of them as well that tormented him. Sometimes he couldn’t remember the exact shade of their hair or the peal of their laughter. Sometimes he would go days without thinking of them, and when he did, the guilt blasted into him because he was beginning to accept their absence. That hurt worst of all.

  But he was thinking of Juliette now, with a vengeance, as he slowly sipped the whiskey while in a darkened corner in the sitting room at Dodger’s. He’d considered returning to his residence, but he couldn’t stand the thought of facing the many portraits of Juliette that adorned his home. She would look down at him from above the mantel and judge him, no more harshly than he judged himself.

  In his mind she began to recede and Grace came to the fore. Grace who had no qualms whatsoever about displaying her ill temper to him. Juliette had certainly never been angry with him. They’d never exchanged harsh words.

  Grace frustrated him to no end with her quest for love. Did she think he could pull it out of his pocket and hand it to her?

  “Contemplating murdering someone?”

  Lovingdon jerked his head up to find Drake studying him intently. Drake was older by three years, and Lovingdon had once trailed after him like a faithful pup. Drake never seemed to mind, but he had taught Lovingdon some skills that he suspected his mother would rather he not know. He could pick a lock, lift a treasured piece without being caught, pilfer a pocket. With a sleight of hand, he could pluck out the cards that would ensure he won.

  “Why would you think that?”

  Drake lifted a shoulder. “I’m accustomed to your dark expressions, but this one seems to be almost black.” He sat in the nearby chair. “Want to talk about it?”

  Lovingdon shook his head.

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with my sister, does it?”

  Lovingdon stilled. While Drake and Grace were not joined by blood, they were as close as any siblings who were.

  Drake lounged back. “I thought so.”

  “She’s trying to find love, and making poor choices in the process. She’s asked for my assistance, but I don’t understand why she has doubts about her ability to recognize love when it arrives.”

  “She has an air of confidence about her that can be misleading.” Drake scratched his thumb over the fabric, studying the motion as though it could help him gather his thoughts. “She’s not certain that a man can truly love her. Her, for herself.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She has much to offer a man.”

  “While I agree—unfortunately she is not as confident.” With a growl, Drake leaned forward and planted his elbows on his thighs, his head hanging as though the weight of his thoughts was too much. “Take care with her, Lovingdon. She’s always admired you the most, thought you the smartest, the cleverest, the kindest. Without meaning to, you could devastate her.”

  Based on her reaction in the garden, the warning may have come a tad too late. “You could marry her.”

  Drake shook his head. “I was raised within the bosom of a noble family, but I am not nobility. I know my place in the world.”

  “It’s standing beside the rest of us.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but you can take a boy out of the streets but you can’t take the streets out of a boy. And our topic of discussion is Grace, not me. She’s more vulnerable than you might think. Help her if you’ve a mind to. Otherwise walk away. I value your friendship, but I value hers more. I could destroy you within the blink of an eye.”

  Sitting in a rocking chair, cradling a sleeping infant who had been left on the foundling doorstep a month earlier, Grace relaxed into the rhythmic motion and gave her mind freedom to wander. As it most often did since the kiss in the garden four nights ago, she found herself thinking not only of lips but of every aspect of a man’s mouth.

  She had not expected a kiss to encompass so much. Somerdale’s lips had been chapped and remained sealed as tightly as a lady’s corset, not that she had attempted entry into his mouth—the thought had not even occurred to her. But now it was all she could think of.

  Three of his teeth overlapped, which gave him an endearing grin. She imagined kissing him as Lovingdon had kissed her. She would notice the little imperfections, just as she’d noticed Lovingdon’s perfections. His teeth were as disciplined as he, lined up perfectly.

  She had never thought beyond the lips, but now everything seemed important: breath, tongue, size. Chesney’s mouth covered the area of a small horse’s. It would swallow her up. Lord Branson was fond of onions. She didn’t think he would provide as flavorful a kiss as Lovingdon’s, which was rich with the lingering taste of brandy.

  Could she love a man whose kiss did not tempt her into kissing him again? She’d never wanted to break away from Lovingdon’s mouth. She had wanted to stay there until the lark warbled and the nightingale went to sleep. She had wanted—

  “Hiding out?”

  She looked to the doorway. Lovingdon stood there in his evening attire, so blasted handsome that he fairly took her breath. She felt the unwanted heat sweep through her as she noticed his lips, as straight as a poker, not curling upward or downward, and yet so frightfully kissable.

  “What are you doing here?” She was rather pleased that her voice didn’t betray the turmoil burning inside her at the sight of him. She wanted to remain aloof, uninterested. She wanted to leap from the chair and throw her arms around him. She’d feared after their encounter in the garden, after her unkind words, that she’d never see him again. She’d written him a dozen lengthy letters of apology but none seemed quite right. In the end, she’d merely sent him a note that read:

  I’m sorry.

  —G

  “Looking for you,” he said. “Do you have any notion as to the number of balls I’ve slipped in and out of, searching for you?”

  A spark of joy should not be rekindled by the words, and yet there it was struggling to burst into a full-fledged flame. “How many?”

  “It seemed like a thousand.”

  The joy ignited and she smiled. “I doubt it even came close to that number. How did you know I was here?”

  “Spoke with Drake. He said you spend considerable time at the foundling homes and orphanages your mother has built. Naturally you would be at the last one I visited.”

  “So what did you want?”

  He studied his well-shined shoes. “To apologize for the kiss.”

  “No need. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  His head came up. “You slapped me.”

  “Because of the reason behind it. I don’t fancy your lessons.”

  “I thought demonstrating would be more efficient than explaining. Why don’t you put that little one to bed and I’ll escort you home? We can discuss a different strategy on the way.”

  “What sort of strategy?”

  “One that will ensure that you marry a man who loves you.”

  “I’m beginning to think that can’t be assured.”

  “Only if you focus on the wrong man.”

  And that would be you, she thought.

  He walked across the room and sat on the floor at her feet, but his at
tention was not on her, but rather the babe she held. Her heart lurched as he skimmed a long, narrow finger along the child’s chubby cheek. As thin as the child was elsewhere, her cheeks had remained rosy and fat.

  “I can’t love again, Grace,” he said quietly. “It hurts too damned much.”

  “I think it sad that you would go the remainder of your life without love. You are not old, Lovingdon, and you have years ahead of you, years to be lonely.”

  “Just because I don’t have love doesn’t mean I will be lonely.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I don’t want for women.”

  “And I don’t want for men circling about, but it’s not enough. It’s superficial, it’s—”

  “Undemanding.”

  “Juliette never struck me as demanding.”

  “She demanded that I not let her and Margaret die.”

  With that admission, her stomach fairly fell to the floor. She realized there was more to his change in character than loss. There was the burden of guilt, horrible guilt. It was a wonder he managed to get out of bed at all with the weight of it. “Oh, Lovingdon, do you not see? You could not have stopped their deaths. You’re not God.”

  “I brought the typhus to them. Juliette asked me not to go into the poorer sections of London, but I felt I had a duty to help the less fortunate. I’d contributed money for improvements and felt I needed to oversee the work. In addition, I was striving to collect data, to provide reports to Parliament. I wanted to change things, I wanted to do something worthwhile. Instead I fell ill.” His voice caught, turned ragged. “I should have been the one to die, but I survived. My darling wife and precious daughter died, because I put others before them.”

  “No, no.” Her need to ease his suffering was a physical ache that threatened to crush her chest. “You don’t know that it was being in the slums that caused your illness. Maybe you came too close to someone at the opera or your tailor or a man you strolled past outside your home. Maybe all three of you were at a park together. Someone, not realizing he was ill, stopped by to say good day. People fall ill for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes it’s little more than Nature’s cruel ways.” She was far too familiar with the truth of those words. “You can’t blame yourself for something that’s not your fault.”

  “I can. I do.” His voice sounded stronger, as though he’d found his way onto a path that he’d traveled far too frequently. “But I have an even greater sin.” He gently, so very gently, combed his fingers over the infant’s hair, as though the motion could calm his wretched soul. “I lied to Juliette, you see. She asked me to protect our child, not to let Margaret die. I promised her that I would do all in my power to see that our daughter got well.” She saw tears welling in the corner of his eye. “I promised her, and in that promise resided my lie, because our daughter was already gone, and I hadn’t the courage to tell Juliette, because I knew she would hate me and I didn’t want her leaving this world hating me.”

  “Lovingdon.” Grace wasn’t certain how she managed it, but she slid from the rocker to the floor without losing her balance, without toppling over, and she carried the babe with her. Cradling her in one arm between herself and Lovingdon, she wound her other arm around him. “Courage had nothing to do with it. It was your love that stopped your words. You let Juliette go in peace, without having to grieve.”

  While the whole of the grieving was left to him.

  She held him, listening to his harsh breathing, willing him to unleash the tears that she was certain he had been holding at bay ever since his wife and daughter died. She understood now the burden he carried, the life he led, the reasons behind his determination not to love again. Within her breast she wept for him, but she knew if he were aware of the secret tears she shed, he would distance himself further. He was too proud to welcome her sympathy. He was lost in guilt, grief, and remorse, and she didn’t know how to convince him that he was forgiven.

  Leaning back slightly, he cupped her cheek with his hand, his eyes reflecting his sorrow. “You deserve someone who loves you with every bit of his being. But he is not me. Still, if you wish me to assist you, I will do it with more enthusiasm.”

  She thought more enthusiasm might very well kill her if that enthusiasm included another kiss. She dropped her gaze to his lips. It was all she could do not to lean in, not to taste them one more time.

  “Nothing improper between us,” he whispered as though he read her thoughts.

  The babe began to mewl and squirm, and she realized she was holding the girl much too tightly, that she had wedged her small body between hers and Lovingdon’s. She welcomed the reprieve, the distraction.

  She eased away, turning her attention to the child, so he wouldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. “Yes, I still welcome your assistance, along with your proper behavior.”

  He chuckled low. “You forget that I knew you as a child. Proper was not what you relished then.”

  “But now I’m grown.”

  She dared to look at him then, keeping all her yearnings buried. He would not love again. She was certain of it now. She did not agree with his reasons, but then it was not her place to agree. Unfortunately, as much as she cared for him, she thought too much of herself to settle for less than she deserved. She deserved a man who loved her wholeheartedly. “I believe my plan to approach you was misguided. I will truly understand if you prefer to return to your debauched life.”

  “Helping you doesn’t mean I have to leave my debauched life behind.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, he helped her up. “Tomorrow we will begin our earnest quest for your love.”

  Chapter 9

  Glass. It was an exhibit of glass. Glasses. Things out of which people drank. Why would anyone bloody care?

  Lovingdon could not help but recognize that of late there were exhibits on everything. Grace had been interested in visiting this one. He would have been more entertained by cow dung.

  There was a reason he preferred nightly entertainments. The day ones were numbing, but apparently very popular. He could hardly reconcile all the people who were entranced with drinking vessels.

  With her arm nestled in the crook of his elbow, she said, “Of the couples here, which of the gentlemen truly fancy the lady they have accompanied?”

  “All of them. A man would have to be truly, madly, deeply in love to force himself through this.”

  She smiled and that deuced tiny freckle at her mouth winked. “You’re bored.”

  “It’s glass, Grace. Now if it had a pour of whiskey or rum in it . . . or God, I’d even be grateful for rye.”

  She laughed and he made a mental note that he shouldn’t cause her to laugh. He loved the way her throat worked so delicately, the way her lips parted in merriment, the absolute joy that lit her eyes . . . over something as mundane as stemware.

  “I don’t think you’re taking this outing seriously. We’re a bit early so it’s the perfect opportunity for you to provide me with some clues as to what I should look for. But soon the Set will be descending, because everyone knows that Bertie is keen to see the exhibit, and I will no doubt be swept away by numerous suitors. So that couple over there by the blue glassware. Does he fancy her?”

  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “You’re here and you don’t fancy me. Perhaps he’s a relation. Is there anything that says he can’t live without her?”

  This was an idiotic exercise. He needed to see her suitors buzzing about her in order to know which ones she should avoid. But as they were here, and she had asked—

  “He fancies her.”

  She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Oh, I think you’re wrong, there. He can barely drag his gaze from the glass. Surely if he fancied her, he’d be looking at her.”

  “He touches her . . . constantly. Small touches. On the shoulder, on the arm, on the small of her back. That’s the big one. The small of her back. Solicitous. Every time she speaks, he leans in so he doesn’t miss a word. If he didn’t fancy her, he wouldn’
t care what she said. He’d simply grunt or mutter something unintelligible, because women, bless them, don’t care whether or not we listen. They simply want to speak. As long as we offer an occasional, ‘Yes, dear, you’re quite right, couldn’t have said it better myself,’ women are overjoyed—even when we haven’t a clue as to what it was we couldn’t have said better ourselves.”

  “No.” She gave him a discreet punch in the side. “We talk because we have something of import to say.”

  “Something that a man generally has no desire to hear, and will hardly ever classify as important.”

  She stepped away from him, anger igniting her eyes into a blue that was only seen in the heart of a fire. “Is that how you feel about me?”

  No words existed to describe how he felt about her. He wanted to see her happy; he wanted her to have love. He wanted to whisk her away to a tower somewhere so she would never know the pain of loss. It occurred to him at that moment that by helping her acquire what she desired, he was condemning her to unbearable suffering. He could only hope that she would be up in years and too senile to fully experience it. Yes, a love that lasted her entire lifetime was what he wanted for her. What he could not guarantee. That realization had him speaking a bit more testily than he might have otherwise. “No, of course not. You have things of interest to say, and I never know what is going to come out of that pretty little mouth of yours.”

  That pretty little mouth set into a stubborn line, and he knew she was trying to decipher whether he had just said something that was too flowery to be true. Therein resided one of the problems with giving women too much information. While most men wouldn’t agree, he knew not to underestimate a woman’s intelligence and reasoning abilities. He suspected if the gents of town discovered what he was revealing about their habits, they would hang him from London Bridge. He needed to get her thoughts elsewhere.

  “I can also tell you that she is married to someone else, someone who probably doesn’t fancy her.”