Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Here, I brought you one of the duchess’s dresses that were still in her wardrobe. It should fit you fine and will get you through the streets without suspicion. You do not need the attention that gown from last night would garner at this time of day.”

  Sighing, Wynne took the dress from his arm, walking over to the bed to drop the sheet and gather her chemise. She knew Rowen was politely ushering her to the door—it was now late morning, and she knew as well as he that if she didn’t show up at the dowager’s house soon, her whereabouts would be questioned.

  She could feel Rowen’s eyes burning into her naked body, but he stayed by the door. A gentleman, even if Wynne wanted him very much not to be so.

  “Does the dowager note your whereabouts?”

  The shift dropped over her head. “No, and I am often away at clients’ homes in the morning when she wakes up. So if I arrive there soon, I do not think there will be any suspicion. You will have to give me directions from here to there, though.”

  “I hate that you have to go back to her, even if it is only for a few days. You will have to keep our wedding a secret from her until the day of.”

  “Why?”

  Rowen shrugged. “I guarantee she would find a way to ruin us.”

  Wynne picked up the dress, pausing to look at Rowen. “Why did you even take the title, Rowen? For all the angst that comes with it—why?”

  “Revenge.” He did not flinch with the word. “I will not hide that fact. And it was easier to take the title than come up with an explanation to deny it that did not involve discussions of my birth. But truly, it was revenge. At least at first.”

  “Against the duchess?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why do you not just leave it all? You do know I will go with you anywhere, live however you would like, if you wish to abandon the title. It does not matter to me.” She smirked at him. “I would be happy to teach you how to live on a mountain—live off the land.”

  Rowen chuckled. “That may be interesting, someday. But the title, since it has become mine, it has evolved into so much more than revenge to me. I am the last in the line. The last.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the duchy dissolves—the title, the estate, goes back to the crown without me. And even though I never respected the duke, my father, I do respect the history of the title, no matter what the duchess has told you. It has become important to me to continue it—to change the trajectory of the power—I can do such good with it. Good that can change the legacy of the title. What it stands for. Even if the duchess would prefer that I fail miserably.”

  Wynne sighed as she slinked into the dress. Rowen still thought the worst of the dowager. Moving to him and turning, she lifted her hair so he could help her with the buttons. The muslin dress was serviceable—she would benefit from proper stays, but it would have to do for the moment.

  “Rowe, did you know the dowager was in love with your father—the man that married your mother? But as the younger brother, he did not have high enough status, and her family demanded she marry the duke instead?”

  Rowen’s hands paused, his knuckles brushing her spine.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. His jaw was clenched, but Wynne continued on—Rowen needed to know this story, needed to understand. “So she married the duke for the title, even though she loved his younger brother.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Wynne?”

  “So you know why I do not hate her. That there is more to who she is.”

  Rowen’s hands were still not moving, so she turned to him.

  “It became so clear to me last night. Did you know the duchess lost her second baby just weeks before you were born? That you—her husband’s child—lived, but her own baby did not? She was beyond devastated and grieved for years, Rowe. You were the child that should have been hers. And then, not only did your mother first marry the man the duchess truly loved, but after he died your mother came into Notlund and continued to be the duke’s mistress. Right in front of the duchess. The duke never touched the duchess again after she lost the baby.”

  “Do not make excuses for the dowager, Wynne.” Rowen’s voice stayed in check, but there was clear anger in it.

  “You were innocent, Rowe. I know that. And so young, you were caught in the frays of vicious anger and injustice when the duchess could not control herself. I do not defend that—what she did to you, how she treated you was so very wrong—deplorable.”

  Wynne grabbed both of his upper arms. “But I can imagine. I can imagine if I had to watch you marry another. I would hate the woman. I would—to the depths of my soul. I felt a modicum of it moments ago when you were downstairs with Miss Dewitt—and that was just my imagination running wild. And then if that woman came into my house and I knew she was my husband’s mistress. That she could have his baby where I could not. I would have difficulty with that, whether I liked my husband or not. To lose a baby. I would go a little insane. Do things that I would never dream of doing.”

  “Like crush a little boy.”

  Wynne’s chest clenched. Even in Rowen’s few words, his pain reverberated from a deep trough within, and it broke her heart. “Yes. She did that. And for that part of her life—what she did to you—I will always hate her for those actions. But she was also there for me these many months, Rowe. Exceedingly generous with her time, with her home, with her love. After my grandfather, mother, and then you—I was alone, Rowe. Alone. And she helped me through all of that brutal, searing loneliness.”

  Jaw throbbing, Rowen’s eyes swung from her face to stare at the fireplace. Long moments passed before he looked back to her. “It should have been me that got you through that, Wynne.”

  “But it was not. It was her.” Her hands dropped from his arms. “The duchess did that for me. Can you understand why I cannot hate her like you do? I know a completely different person.”

  He shook his head. “Can we stop? I do not wish to hear about the virtues of the dowager.”

  Wynne studied his face. He was trying very hard not to explode. That, she could see.

  She turned around, lifting her hair once more. “Will you finish buttoning me, please?”

  His fingers worked the buttons upwards.

  “Wynne…”

  “Hmm?”

  “You are mad.”

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “Just sad. I do not want you to have to harbor that anger. I do not want your body to tighten at her name. I do not want your thoughts consumed with destroying her. Her bitterness—she shoved it upon you, and it became yours. And I just want you to be free of it.”

  He finished the buttons and she dropped her hair, turning to him again. Her hand went softly to his cheek. “Rowe, you are a man that is so much more. The man I love. I only want for you to have peace with something you had no way to control.”

  “You ask too much of me, Wynne.”

  Her head shook gently. “No, I do not ask it of you—I only wish it for you. I did not suffer what you did, so I cannot truly understand. And I do not wish to take any of your anger at her away—only you can decide that.”

  His hand went over the back of hers, and he turned his head, kissing her palm.

  With the simple motion, Wynne recognized Rowen’s limit had been reached, and the conversation was done for the moment.

  Her hand slid from his face, and she went to get her slippers. Hopefully, she could get into the dowager’s townhouse and change before the duchess caught sight of her.

  Rowen stayed in his spot, watching her. “When I was talking with Miss Dewitt, it reminded me of what you said last night when I first saw you—that you needed me—what was that about?”

  Wynne gasped, hand over her mouth. “I—all of this—I forgot to tell you. My paintings.”

  “Your paintings?”

  Slippers secure, she went back to Rowen, her words tumbling. “Yes. I saw them—the ones that were in my home in Tanloo
n. Ones I painted here in England. They are here in a shop—a gallery. They are for sale. I saw them yesterday—it was why I found you. Why I needed you.”

  “Are you sure they are yours?”

  “Of course, yes.” Her eyes rolled. “I know my own paintings, Rowe. Two are of my grandfather.”

  “So you inquired about them?” Rowen’s voice was cautious.

  “Yes. The clerk—a woman—did not share the name of who they came from. She said they are all consignment and that the sellers need to remain discreet.” Wynne couldn’t keep her voice from being frantic. “It is a trail Rowe—a trail. She would not tell me anything, but I hoped you could help—help me figure out a way. The gallery is on Bond Street. If we went back there together and if we could find out who is selling them, then maybe…”

  “Maybe you will find you mother’s killer?”

  “Yes.” Wynne flipped away the thought with her hand, her voice turning excited. “Or what if I was crazy and I did have the wrong town? The wrong house? And my mother is alive, and she could not find me, and she brought them here, and she is selling them? What if she is alive?”

  Rowen’s face darkened. “Wynne—”

  “No. Do not say it.” Her arms crossed over her chest. “It is possible. Possible that she is here. I was addled—my memory knocked out of me—what if she is alive and is here?”

  He moved a step closer, his hands clamping down on her shoulders.

  She stilled at his touch, then squirmed, trying to get out of his hold. She didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. Didn’t want him to crush her hope. Not hope that she needed.

  His grasp tightened on her.

  No escape.

  But she didn’t need to look at him.

  “Wynne, that was the right town. When we went back there—Luhaunt and I—those people were hiding something, protecting someone. There was no doubt, Wynne. Your mother…” His hands moved upward, cupping her face and forcing her gaze to his. “This is dangerous, Wynne. I did not tell you before at Notlund, but this is dangerous. And even more dangerous now that your paintings have appeared. I do not want you going back into that shop.”

  “But if she is alive—”

  “No.” The word came out sharp, biting. “She is not alive, Wynne. I will go. Alone. I will find out all I can. But I cannot protect you like I need to until we are married. So I will find out everything I can, and I will tell you everything I learn. But you need to stay away from that shop. Trust me, Wynne.”

  “I do trust you. But she could be alive, Rowe—you have to see possibility of it. Who else would have my paintings? I told the clerk—”

  “I do not care what you told the clerk.” His hands dropped down to her shoulders, fingers squeezing. “Your mother is not alive, Wynne. Do not go in there again.”

  “But if she is alive—I cannot abandon her again, Rowe.” She grabbed his wrists, pleading. “You have to understand. I left her once—I will not be weak again.”

  “No. She is gone, Wynne.”

  Frustrated tears welled. “Is this what marriage will be like—you will disregard me, not believe me?”

  “If it means your safety, Wynne, then yes, this is exactly what it will be like.”

  She shook her head, eyes narrowing at him. He didn’t believe her mother could be alive—and if he didn’t believe in that possibility, how could he truly follow a trail to her?

  “Swear to me you will not go in there, Wynne.”

  She twisted out of his hands, moving backward. “I need to get back to the dowager’s home. Can you tell me the general direction?”

  “Wynne—”

  She stepped around him, going for the door. Not quick enough, he grabbed her wrist. Her other hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder at him.

  Glaring at her, Rowen said nothing, but she could feel his anger throbbing in his hand.

  Wynne met his glare with her own, rage exploding.

  Stare at her all he wanted, she wasn’t going to swear a thing about her future actions.

  If Rowen didn’t believe her mother could be alive, then he was not the person to go into that shop. Of that, she was certain.

  Muttering an incoherent blasphemy, she yanked her wrist free, opening the door. “I will figure how to get home myself, then.”

  Down the stairs and out the front door in a fury, she didn’t care if she was seen by his staff. Didn’t care if there was a scandal. She just needed to leave his presence before she spewed something she would regret.

  Into the sunlight, her head swiveled, looking for direction. Nothing familiar, so she randomly turned left and stomped down the street.

  Dammit.

  Rowen asked for her to believe in him, to trust him. And she did.

  So why couldn’t he do the same for her?

  { Chapter 23 }

  Wynne fingered the folded note in her apron. Walking down the sidewalk, her eyes stayed trained on the ground.

  She had just left Lady Southfork’s home after a cancelled sitting appointment. Lady Southfork had been entirely gracious, apologizing profusely for not getting word to Wynne sooner that she had a surprise wedding to attend to that day and would not have time for a sitting.

  Not that Wynne was in much of a mood for painting. For two days she had heard nothing from Rowen—not one word—until this note appeared in her leather satchel with her paintbrushes.

  How he had gotten the note in there without her knowing was annoying, and then the actual note—hastily scribbled—was beyond frustrating.

  Wynne—

  The ceremony will take place tomorrow at 11 in the morning. I will come for you at the dowager’s home. —Rowen

  That was all. No news about the art gallery—if he even visited the place. No endearments. No love. Just another order.

  An emotionless order.

  This was the man she was going to marry? For all that he had been everything she ever needed him to be the night of the masquerade ball, his actions since then left a lot to be desired.

  Toe stubbing hard on a cobblestone as she crossed the street, she hopped, shaking the pain from her foot and swearing at herself. She stopped at an iron fence lining the front of a townhouse, leaning on it as she lifted her foot to rub her big toe through her boot.

  She shook her head, taking a deep breath.

  Of course she was going to marry Rowen. She loved him. Down to her blasted toe that was throbbing. Even if his current actions were driving her mad. Even if he was still so clearly mad at her as well.

  But for two days—even though it had irked her to do so—she had stayed away from the gallery that held her paintings. Solely to appease Rowen’s request, whether he knew it or not.

  But this note—no information on the shop, no information on if he had even gone there himself, on if he had even seen her paintings or questioned anyone.

  Not a word.

  And her mother could very well be here, in London. Still alive and still missing her daughter. Alive and able to see her daughter wed.

  Wynne sighed, eyes closed and face to the sky. A mistake, as Rowen’s face instantly popped into her mind. His face when he demanded she stay out of that shop. The exact same look as was on his face when he was pulling Wynne away from her landlady in Tanloon.

  She had seen it in his eyes in Tanloon, and she saw it again that morning in his bedroom—it was a look that questioned her sanity. A look of trying to protect Wynne from herself.

  But why shouldn’t he question her sanity? She still couldn’t remember what happened during the days in the woods. The landlady didn’t recognize her. There was no evidence of her living in that Tanloon home. So why should Rowen look at her like she was sane?

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  Ever since Tanloon, she could not help but question her own sanity—her own memories at every turn.

  Maybe she had imagined her paintings in that shop. Maybe that was what Rowen was trying to protect her from. Herself.

  Eyes opening, she
squinted in the midday sun, hazy behind a bank of clouds. She looked around. She was only six blocks from the art gallery. She could walk by. Quickly. Just to prove to herself she wasn’t crazy. Walk by and not go in. Rowen had asked—demanded—she not go into the shop. He had said absolutely nothing about walking by the shop.

  She started off.

  Minutes later, her footsteps slowed as she approached the gallery. She could see it before she was even in front of the shop, the empty space where the painting of her grandfather had been.

  Hell. She was crazy.

  Her steps quickened.

  She had planned just a casual walk-by. Just a glance. But the glaring empty spot in the window made her stop right in front of the store, staring inward, searching.

  Maybe they had just moved the painting. Her eyes scanned the interior walls.

  None of her paintings were hanging. Lots of empty wall spaces, but not a single one of her paintings. There were at least twenty displayed the other day, and now, none.

  She pressed her nose on the glass, cupping her hands around her eyes to cut the glare of the day on the glass.

  Nothing. Not one painting from the other day.

  Her chest tightened in panic. She hadn’t truly believed she was crazy. But now. Now everything she had thought she’d seen had disappeared.

  Maybe she was mistaken about the shop. She stepped back from the window, looking at the storefront—it was the same as she remembered.

  Nose to the window again, she scanned the interior, looking for the clerk from the other day. Had she imagined her as well? Wynne didn’t see her inside, only two men standing, facing the now mostly empty wall of paintings.

  In discussion, one of the men kept motioning to the empty spots on the wall, pointing.

  Wynne could only see their profiles, but it was quite clear one of them was of lower class, his clothes a mess and slightly dirty around a round belly, with long, stringy hair pulled back in a low ponytail. The other man was dressed impeccably, fine tailored coat, crisp cravat, and neat trousers. The man’s neat brown hair did not move as he talked, frozen into place somehow.