Redemption of the Duke

by Gayle Callen

  Though, inside, she felt like weeping much of the time. What was wrong with her?

  The door opened.

  “Did you forget—” She broke off, seeing Adam enter and then deliberately close the door behind him.

  He was wearing shirtsleeves without cravat or waistcoat, unbuttoned at the throat. It was so casual, so intimate, that it sent a hum of nervousness through her.

  Slowly, she set down her book. “Your Grace, may I help you?”

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about our dance two nights ago.”

  She felt her cheeks redden as she rose to her feet. “Please, I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  “I want to be able to dance with you like that openly, for all the world to see.”

  “You mean for all the world to snicker behind their fans,” she pointed out sarcastically.

  “They would never snicker at a duchess. That’s what you don’t understand. There is power in such a position—prestige. People will want your favor. Yes, they’ll be shocked at first, but it’s not as if dukes haven’t married commoners before.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “Dance with me.” He took her hands and led her away from the sofa. “I’m not asking anything else.”

  “Oh, you’re not?” she answered wryly.

  “We’re alone—you can dance with me.”

  “There’s no music,” she said reluctantly.

  He brought her into the proper waltz position. “We don’t need music,” he said against her temple.

  And then he took her for the first curve around the sofa. She had no choice but to follow or be dragged, for he was that strong. His shirt was so fine that she felt she was touching his bare shoulder. Soon, it became almost enjoyable to dodge furniture, to stop and swirl far too close to the fire screen. She actually laughed aloud as he whirled her in a tight circle, and she spun so much she came up against his body, her head bent to his chest.

  “Faith,” he whispered against her hair.

  The ache of regret and sorrow never truly left her, and now it seemed to strangle her words as she said huskily, “I have to go, you know that. Charlotte knows of a position for me. I was waiting until after tomorrow’s speech to explain it to your aunt.”

  He cupped her face in his warm hands until she was forced to look at him.

  “What will I do without you?” he asked.

  Staring into those vivid blue eyes, she was compelled to reach up, to touch his face, the leanness of his cheek, the soft warmth of his lips.

  “This is good-bye,” she whispered, coming up on her toes to softly kiss him.

  The touch of their mouths was like an electric spark between them. They hesitated, lost, and then with a moan she opened to him, and they came together with all the heat and overwhelming passion that flared and encompassed them.

  She would never have this again, she knew. For the rest of her life, these would be the memories that would sustain her, that would let her know that once a man cared just for her, and not what she could do for him.

  Her hands slid around his waist, and then up beneath his loose shirt, feeling the warm hard muscles of his back.

  “Oh my!” came a cry.

  Faith and Adam broke apart, and she turned toward the door, hand covering her wet mouth in shock.

  Sophia and Lady Duncan stood in the doorway, both gaping.

  It was Lady Duncan who collected herself first. “Get out of the doorway, Sophia, we must close it before—”

  Sophia seemed to shake herself as she moved aside, risking another wide-eyed glance at her brother. “Before . . . what?”

  “Your mother sees!”

  Sophia gasped. “But she’s not supposed to—”

  “What is going on?” said the duchess in an annoyed voice. She pushed past Lady Duncan. “After that dreadful dinner, I do believe I need a glass of . . .”

  And then she saw them. Faith hadn’t been able to move, just stood too close to Adam, hugging herself, knowing it was too late to run, to explain, to do anything. Then Lady Tunbridge threaded between them, and her face paled with distaste.

  Instead of gaping, the duchess stiffened right up and spoke between compressed lips. “Adam, what is the meaning of this?”

  Faith wanted to cover her face, but there was no hiding. This was all her fault. Once again, she’d proved weak where a man was concerned.

  But no, even at the height of this humiliation, it wasn’t just any man who drew her—it was Adam.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry you all had to see this.”

  Lady Tunbridge and the duchess looked at Faith as if she were lower than a worm.

  “To think that my Frances has lived in the same home as . . . as . . .” Lady Tunbridge couldn’t seem to find a word to describe her.

  “That’s enough,” Adam said coldly. “None of this is Faith’s fault.”

  Lady Tunbridge continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “When this gets out, we will all be the center of scandal.”

  Adam took almost a menacing step toward her. “This is not getting out. And if it does, I’ll know that a member of my family spread the gossip.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Faith finally said in a trembling voice. “I believe I have another position to go to.”

  “As if you should be in respectable people’s homes,” Lady Tunbridge sniffed.

  Faith blinked hard to fight against the stinging.

  “That’s enough, Marian,” Lady Duncan said coldly. “You forget yourself. There were two people alone in this room, not just one.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Adam said to Faith. “I am not risking your reputation like this.”

  “What reputation?” Faith demanded. “I have none, Adam, none worth worrying about.”

  “What did you call my son?” the duchess demanded.

  Faith winced. “Your Grace—”

  “She can call me Adam, because soon she’ll be my wife.”

  That brought everyone to a silent standstill.

  Oh no, Faith thought, I’ve given Adam even more reason to behave nobly, to press for marriage.

  “Adam!” his mother said faintly, leaning hard against the piano. “You will not marry a—a—”

  “No, he will not be marrying me,” Faith interrupted.

  In a kindly voice, Lady Duncan said her name, but Faith refused to listen.

  “I am not the sort of woman who can be a duchess—we all know that.”

  “Faith, that’s not true,” Sophia said plaintively.

  Faith looked at the young woman who’d become her friend, and smiled sadly. “You are being kind, Sophia, but it’s the truth. I’ve only been on the fringes of your world, and I can’t come farther.” She rounded on Adam. “I won’t marry you.”

  And then she couldn’t look at so many judging faces anymore, and ran from the room.

  Chapter 18

  Adam stormed past his family, but he didn’t follow Faith. He knew she was upset and needed a chance to calm down.

  He’d been a fool, never imagining how ugly it could get, how she’d blame herself. He’d just wanted what he wanted—he wanted her.

  He’d caught Sophia’s wide-eyed look of guilt—another innocent he’d traumatized.

  In his study, he paced, reminding himself that this was the worst of it, that he was still doing the right thing. He and Faith belonged together; she deserved the life he’d had a hand in taking away from her. He wanted to give her everything.

  It wasn’t guilt, he told himself, but justice and maybe even love.

  When someone knocked, he didn’t answer, but then his aunt came right in.

  “I don’t need this now, Aunt Theodosia,” he said, holding up a hand. “I’ve made a mistake, but I will
rectify it.”

  “Apparently not the way Faith wants you to.”

  He grimaced. “I will convince her that she’s wrong. I don’t give a damn where she comes from or what she’s worth. She’ll be my wife.”

  “Is protecting her all this is about?” she asked in a softer voice.

  With sarcasm, he said, “Did it look like I was protecting her?”

  Lady Duncan sighed. “She is my employee. Apparently, I have not protected her.”

  “Aunt Theodosia, stop. I am not some overly aggressive master using a woman for my own ends. I want to marry her—frankly, I’ve wanted that for weeks, only she thought we shouldn’t marry.”

  She blinked at him. “Oh. Strangely, that makes me feel better. Nevertheless, I am going to talk to the girl.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m not asking your opinion.” She sniffed mildly.

  Faith sat on the window seat and hugged herself as if she’d never be warm again. She didn’t know what to do first—pack? Not that she had any place to go yet; Charlotte only mentioned an elderly relative of her employer who might be looking for a companion.

  But she couldn’t leave what had just happened to face an uncertain future. In her mind flashed all their faces again: Adam looking startled, Sophia pale, Lady Duncan surprised. But it was the duchess and Lady Tunbridge whose expressions reminded Faith of all she’d be facing should this scandal come out. They’d shun her, and so would everyone else she knew. It would be like living in Lord Reyburn’s village all over again. Few people had spoken to her except to take her coin in stores. She’d been alone—although she preferred it that way, she’d always told herself, considering what she was doing there.

  A knock sounded at the door, making her flinch.

  “I am indisposed,” she said loudly from across the room.

  The door began to open anyway.

  “Adam, I don’t wish to—”

  And then she saw the bright red turban of Lady Duncan, and she fell silent. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away, knowing how much she’d disappointed the woman who’d taken a chance on hiring her.

  “L-Lady Duncan,” she began, only to hear her voice tremble with suppressed emotion.

  The elderly woman limped to her and sat down, putting an arm around her. And that kindness made Faith cry in earnest.

  Lady Duncan handed her a handkerchief. “Now, there, dear, please cease this crying. It’s not necessary, you know. I do not think badly of you.”

  “We shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—” A sob interrupted.

  “Do you not think I was young once? You would blush in horror if I told you how my first marriage came about. I was a feisty young woman, little caring what the rules were.”

  Faith blew her nose and stared at her with watery eyes. “That’s—that’s kind of you to say, my lady, but it doesn’t change anything. I have . . . embarrassed you, humiliated the duchess, and—and set such a terrible example for Lady Sophia, who even now is trying to find a way to win Mr. P-Percy. What if she t-tries . . .” Her voice rose and faded into a squeak.

  “Mr. Percy is quite the strong young man and can take care of himself. And I wish right this moment that you would stop acting as if everything that happened tonight was your fault. You have a partner in this, young lady, and just because he’s a duke, doesn’t mean he can get away with everything.”

  Faith slumped. “Regardless, I will not let him be affected, ma’am.”

  “Well, he is affected if you’re with child.”

  Faith flinched. “We have never done more than kiss, my lady, I promise you. There is no chance of any . . . consequences.”

  “Well, that’s one complication we don’t have to worry about. No rushed wedding.”

  “No wedding at all!” Faith said, jumping to her feet. “Whatever Adam—His Grace—says, he would regret it someday. I already regret all of this. He is meant for someone like Lady Emmeline”—someone innocent and pure—“not a commoner like me, with no bloodline, no money, no beauty.”

  “Faith—”

  “I will never be a part of this family, Lady Duncan, can you not see that?”

  “If Adam wants you to be a part of his family, then you can be. Only he matters in your marriage, not his mother, not that silly Marian. It’s not as if Marian ever looked past her poor husband’s future title to love the man beneath.”

  “I don’t care what Adam wants.”

  “Don’t you? Do you care how dishonorable it will look, if he does not marry the girl he compromised?”

  “C-compromised? He didn’t—we didn’t—”

  “You were caught alone together, and you weren’t seated on opposite ends of the sofa, my dear. I honestly don’t believe someone in the family will leak the truth, but there are servants, and they do gossip.”

  She thought of Adam, so nobly offering to marry her, suffering shame in public when that didn’t happen.

  But he wouldn’t suffer at all if he knew the truth.

  “I must talk to him,” she said at last, wiping her eyes, resolve making her feel almost numb.

  “Good. Do that. Between you both, you will solve your problems.”

  Just not the way you think, Faith thought bitterly. She started to hand back the sodden handkerchief, thought better of it, and set it aside.

  “Go to him, dear. I’m sure he’s waiting for you. Try his study.”

  The house was silent and ghostly as she moved down through it, oppressive as if generations were looking down from every painting to judge her. Rationally, she knew Lady Duncan was right—Faith was not the first person to do something scandalous in this house. But it felt personal and humiliating to her, and that’s all she could focus on.

  A faint light showed from beneath the study door, and she knocked before she could change her mind.

  “Come in.”

  She heard the curiosity in his voice and opened the door.

  “Faith,” he said with warm concern, coming around the desk.

  She put up a hand before he could touch her. “Don’t. I’ll melt into a pitiable heap with your comfort. We cannot pretend this didn’t happen, and I don’t want you to suffer for what we did.”

  He groaned. “What the hell do I care what other fools think? I only care about you.”

  “Then if you truly care about me, you’ll listen and understand. I’m already ruined, Adam, and not because of you. I made choices years ago, and I’ve had to live with the consequences ever since. And one of the consequences is that I cannot marry.”

  “Faith—”

  “No, just listen,” she begged, hugging herself. “Once you hear what I’ve done, you’ll understand why marriage is impossible. You need to understand that you won’t suffer any dishonor because of me. How can there be dishonor when you’ve only kissed a woman who’s already been a man’s mistress?”

  “Faith—” he implored, then broke off.

  Something in his face changed—she could see him pale, saw the anguish he didn’t bother to hide. It ripped her heart out to hurt him like this. He whispered her name, but she held up a hand.

  “Hear me out,” she demanded, barely able to look at him. “If—if I become your mistress, then you will just be doing what other men already do. You won’t suffer on my account.”

  She finally took a breath, waiting for his shock and revulsion or maybe intrigue. She felt as if she’d received a blow to the stomach, as if she might never breathe normally again.

  But his expression was gentle. “I don’t want you to give yourself to me in that way. And I don’t care what happened in your past.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she took a step away. “How can you not care? Surely you don’t understand. My past could affect your sister, your niece.”


  “That’s rubbish,” he said firmly.

  They stared at each other, and though she saw compassion in his gaze, it didn’t matter.

  “Adam—”

  “I don’t care about what other people might say—I care about you. My sister would feel the same way.”

  “But . . . if it comes out, your family will be humiliated.”

  He came closer, and she flinched when he held her upper arms.

  “So there’ll be gossip for a time. My mother lived down bringing no dowry to her marriage—so will you. My aunt had several public affairs when she was widowed, and much gossip ensued. We all survived. And we’re happy. You and I will be happy, too.”

  “As your mistress.”

  “No, as my wife.”

  “You don’t understand, Adam. You don’t know the whole story.” She didn’t want to speak of the ugliness, but he had to be convinced that marriage to her would never work.

  He drew her forward to a little sofa beneath the window and made her sit beside him. “Then tell me, Faith, for surely I deserve to know, since it’s because of me you were desperate. But it won’t change anything.”

  She took a deep breath. “I was the mistress of a married man. His wife had been in a coma for many years, but she was alive, Adam.”

  “And did you go offer yourself to him on a whim?”

  She flinched. “Of course not. I went to ask for a letter of reference so I could look for a position.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It was cruel of him not to give you one.”

  “He’s not the only one. I asked Timothy Gilpin if I could ask his father for a letter, and he refused.”

  “Another sterling example of manhood,” Adam said darkly.

  Faith waved a hand in dismissal. “He’s a coward. He was engaged and worried his fiancée would think—oh, what does it matter? I could have refused Lord Reyburn, but I didn’t.”

  “You had no one else to ask for a letter, did you?”

  She ignored that. “He allowed me the use of a cottage and spending money.”

  “Did he treat you well?”

  “I—yes, yes he did. He was a kind gentleman. We probably played chess and talked more than we . . .” She flushed and looked away. It was upsetting and strange to discuss past sexual relations with another man. “Then he became ill and I nursed him for three months until his death.”