The Other Duke

by Jess Michaels

  But she still insisted that they would part as soon as a house could be procured for her. A house, Rafe had to admit, he hadn’t even begun to seek out, despite his promises.

  He frowned as he approached the intersection to his brother’s block of the street. He looked for approaching vehicles and riders and when the street was clear, he stepped out to make his way across.

  He’d taken no more than three steps when the tremendous thundering of hooves echoed toward him. He turned toward the sound and gasped as he saw a carriage careening toward him at full speed. There were screams from other walkers as he dove forward and rolled into the gutter just as the vehicle screeched past him and veered around the corner so quickly that it nearly toppled itself over.

  Rafe rolled to face the carriage, certain it would stop and the driver and occupant would have an apology or explanation for their reckless behavior, but the vehicle kept going. It weaved through the traffic on the next street, nearly colliding with other drivers as it disappeared from view.

  “Sir!”

  Rafe looked up to see a man reaching out for him. He took the offered hand of assistance and climbed to his feet.

  “Are you injured?” his helper asked him as Rafe dusted himself off.

  He tested his arms and legs and found no serious pain in any of them. “A bit bruised, perhaps, but no injury,” he assured the Good Samaritan and the others who had stopped to gape at him.

  “Bloody lucky—it came right for you,” the man said with a shake of his head. “A fine carriage it was, too, to be driven so wildly.”

  Rafe looked again in the direction the carriage had escaped. “Lucky indeed that I was not struck,” he murmured. “Thank you again for the assistance.”

  The man nodded and walked away, leaving Rafe to his own devices. He wiped a suddenly sweaty brow and shook his head. He had never been so close to death before and he found it made him think even more about his wife…and his future.

  Despite the fact that those two subjects were supposed to be mutually exclusive.

  “Great God, don’t you look a fright,” Crispin said as Rafe entered his parlor a few moments later.

  Rafe glared at his brother and said nothing as he poured himself a hefty glass of scotch from the sideboard near the fireplace. When he’d taken a gulp, he turned toward his waiting sibling.

  “I was almost killed,” he said, then explained what had just happened in the street.

  Crispin stepped back in stunned surprise as Rafe finished his story. “My God.”

  “Quite,” Rafe agreed as he paused at the mirror above the fireplace to fix himself. Once he had done so, he turned back to Crispin. “But I survived, so…” he trailed off with a wave of his hand.

  Crispin shook his head, his frown deep and dark. “Always so nonchalant.”

  Rafe smiled, but inside he felt anything but nonchalant about the day’s events. “I refuse to dwell on what might have happened,” he lied.

  His brother took a drink and examined him closely. “Very well. Then perhaps you would prefer to dwell on what has.”

  Rafe shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “How do you find being a duke suits you?”

  Rafe looked over the edge of his tumbler of whiskey and glared at Crispin, whose tone was now laced with sarcasm and whose eyes glittered with the same.

  “Did you invite me to your home today to delight in my pain?” Rafe asked.

  Crispin shook his head. “You know I could never do that, Raphael. I have had many a sleepless night as I pictured you on this hellish path.”

  Rafe wrinkled his brow. “You may be overstating it a bit, Crispin.”

  “Am I? You were free as a lark not a fortnight ago, without a care in the world. And now you are surrounded by foolery. Nearly being mown down in the street is almost a metaphor.”

  “Crispin—” Rafe began.

  His brother ignored him. “I’ve heard via Annabelle and Mama that you’ve been invited to some of those ridiculous Society parties we took so much care to avoid over the years. Is the new duchess dragging you there?”

  Rafe stiffened at the way Crispin referred to Serafina. “I thought you liked ‘the new duchess’. If you do not, I think you should hold your tongue. That is my wife to whom you are referring.”

  Crispin’s rigid posture collapsed a little and he sank into the closest chair with a sigh. “I like her as far as I know her, yes.”

  Rafe frowned. He could see the true concern all over Crispin’s face and he loved his brother for it. Rafe set his drink aside and took the seat beside him.

  “It isn’t so bad as all that,” he reassured Crispin softly. “As I settle in, I realize more and more that there is a great deal of responsibility, yes. I have an entail to rebuild thanks to the utterly foolish business decisions of Cyril’s part of the family. I have tenants.”

  “You had tenants before, on the Sussex estate,” Crispin sighed.

  “Yes,” Rafe acknowledged. “But not like this. There are probably twice as many, if not more, in Cyril’s holdings and they haven’t been treated particularly well over the years. There are amends to be made.”

  “And what of the balls and the frippery?” Crispin asked, giving him an even look.

  “My first inclination was to avoid such things, of course.” Rafe shook his head. “But Serafina has made some very good points about cutting myself away from men who would be my peers. Men who could help me as I made my transition into the House of Lords.”

  His brother grumbled even more dissatisfaction and Rafe smiled again at Crispin’s over protectiveness.

  “I think the elder brother is supposed to watch the younger like a hawk, not the other way around,” he teased.

  Crispin, for once, didn’t join in. “I don’t want to see you forced into some other person’s life, Rafe.”

  Rafe flinched. That was exactly what had happened since Cyril’s death. And yet, there were parts of it that weren’t so terrible.

  A brief flickering image of Serafina arching beneath him passed through his mind and he exerted effort to make it go away.

  “At any rate, Sera isn’t dragging me into anything. But she has been raised and taught to be a duchess almost her entire life. She is offering me help to be the best duke I can be and I appreciate that. So should you. Trust me, without a guide, the entire endeavor would be far less tolerable.”

  Crispin stared at him for what felt like a very long time.

  “What is it?” Rafe finally sighed.

  “Sera?” his brother repeated, somewhat incredulously.

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “It is a shortening of her name, Cris, nothing more. What of it?”

  Crispin smothered a smile at the old nickname Rafe had called him as a child, but then his face was serious again. “Nothing at all. I just thought you and Sera had agreed she would be moved into her own home after the wedding.”

  Rafe pushed to his feet and paced away. He’d been just thinking that same thing not ten minutes before.

  “These things take time, Crispin. I’m trying to find her the perfect accommodation.” He stared out the window, thinking of her. “She deserves nothing less.”

  His brother made a sharp sound, and Rafe turned to find Crispin on his feet, staring at him. “Tell me you aren’t developing feelings for Serafina.”

  Rafe clenched his fists at his sides, but it wasn’t because Crispin was out of line. It was because he had just broached a subject Rafe had been trying very hard to avoid.

  He cleared his throat. “Feelings? I suppose I am.”

  Crispin’s face contorted with something akin to horror.

  “I like her,” Rafe explained. “I am developing respect for her. I’m constantly surprised by her. Those are all feelings, Crispin.”

  “Rafe.”

  “Crispin.”

  His brother shook his head slowly and his tone was gentle when he said, “Don’t get caught up in romantic notions, Raphael. You two were thrown together by ridiculo
us circumstances, and she is beautiful. No one could deny that fact.”

  “She is far more than that,” Rafe said softly, thinking of their conversation of two nights before when she had expressed a wish to be seen as more than her looks.

  Crispin’s lips pinched. “Perhaps she is, but she was never your choice. And you were never hers. You may swoop in like a white knight in some attempt to make her more comfortable, but don’t mistake that notion for anything deeper.”

  Rafe stiffened. His brother was closer to the mark than he knew. Crispin didn’t know what Serafina had suffered at their cousin’s hands, nor did Rafe have any intention of sharing Sera’s secret, even with his best friend and brother. But Crispin was still correct that Rafe did want to give her so much to make up for what she’d endured. She deserved that and so much more.

  “You are being an idiot,” he breathed, trying not to meet his brother’s seeing eyes.

  Crispin shrugged. “Then I am an idiot. And you will do the best thing for everyone involved and get Serafina the house she wants for herself. You will move her out of your home. And you’ll get a mistress to warm your bed.”

  Rafe gripped a fist at his side, but his tense posture didn’t put Crispin off a bit.

  “What about that widow…what was her name…Lady Braehold?” Crispin smiled. “You liked each other well enough.”

  Rafe scowled. “The viscountess and I had one night together, Crispin, over a month ago. And while it was certainly pleasurable, it wasn’t something I am aching to repeat.”

  In fact, he wasn’t aching to repeat anything with any woman. Except Serafina, who kept wending her way through his thoughts until he could see her perfectly when he closed his eyes.

  “Then find someone else,” Crispin encouraged. “I could make inquiries on your behalf.”

  Rafe arched a brow at the desperation that laced his brother’s tone. “Why are you so set upon my finding a mistress? Why not let me have a few weeks to play husband before you hurtle me into some other woman’s arms?”

  Crispin ducked his head and drew a long breath before he replied, "I suppose I worry that you may get caught up in this ludicrous life that has been fitted over your own. That you will lose yourself.”

  Rafe stared at him, taking in his knitted brow, his tight frown, the concern in his bright eyes, so like Rafe’s own. He reached out and squeezed Crispin’s shoulder.

  “You are worrying over nothing, I assure you. Things will be different, of course, now that this unexpected change has happened, but I have no intentions of abandoning you.” Crispin’s gaze snapped up and Rafe saw that he had struck upon the real issue. “Nor will I lose myself.”

  But as he made that promise to his brother, Rafe couldn’t help but wonder if he could keep it. After all, when he heard the words in his own voice, he recognized that they were a lie. He was already beginning to lose himself. To the title, to the future…and to the woman who had wound her way into his life and his bed.

  Serafina folded her hands in her lap and tried very hard to make her right foot stop tapping anxiously beneath the hem of her gown.

  “I don’t want to be here,” she murmured to herself as she looked at the door across the room. But escape was wishful thinking. Just as it always had been when dealing with Cyril or his family.

  As if on cue, the door to the parlor opened and Cyril’s mother swept in. The dowager duchess was draped in black from head to toe and her face was pale and drawn with grief.

  In that moment, Serafina felt nothing but pity for Hesper and rose to offer her assistance to a seat. But as she neared her once-future mother-in-law, Cyril’s mother recoiled, her glare sending a perfectly clear message of her continued hatred for Serafina.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” Serafina said with a slight incline of her head.

  “Good afternoon,” the dowager said in an icy tone as she motioned Serafina back to her place. Once they were settled, Hesper looked Serafina up and down with a loud sniff. “Wearing color, I see.”

  Serafina flinched at the accusation. “My lady, once I married Rafe, your son became my late cousin. You know that the mourning rules for a cousin are different than those of a spouse. I am wearing violet, of course, out of a respect for Cyril.”

  Violet that she despised more than any other color she had ever worn. She couldn’t wait to pack her mourning gowns away for good and wear greens and blues and joyful reds again. They would certainly reflect her renewed spirit far better.

  “Rafe,” the dowager said, practically spitting the word out like it was a curse. “You call him Rafe.”

  Serafina shifted. She hadn’t realized she had used Rafe’s nickname so casually. It was difficult not to when she always thought of him that way. Rafe Flynn forever, regardless of what propriety dictated.

  “If you feel that is flippant, I believe you know I mean my husband, His Grace, the Duke of—”

  Suddenly Cyril’s mother was on her feet. She swung, and her hand connected with Serafina’s cheek with a hard slap that turned her head and left her face stinging. She staggered up and backed away, staring at Lady Hartholm in shock.

  The dowager was panting, her eyes flashing hatred and violence and her hands shaking at her side.

  “Never call him that,” the dowager warned. “Not to me.”

  Serafina swallowed hard, folding her emotions carefully away, just as she had always been forced to practice with Cyril and his family.

  “Why did you ask me here, my lady?” she asked, glad her voice didn’t tremble too much.

  Hesper’s face contorted into another mask of hatred and pain. “I’ve heard you and my nephew have been parading around London, flaunting your ill-gotten gains at parties.”

  Serafina shook her head slowly. “I assure you that is not true. Yes, Rafe—”

  She cut herself off. What should she call her husband if Lady Hartholm didn’t like his nickname or his title?

  “My husband and I,” she began again, “have gone to one party and accepted invitations to two other events, one tonight and another Sunday afternoon. But we flaunt nothing, I assure you. We are currently a novelty due to the tragedy surrounding Cyril’s death and the shock of his cousin inheriting both a title and a bride. I’m certain that interest will fade soon enough. My husband is only trying to maintain a dignified view of the title.”

  “Dignified,” Lady Hartholm jeered as she paced to the window and stared out at the sunny garden. “What would anyone with the last name of Flynn know of dignity? That man and his family have been a blight on my husband and son for decades. That he would hold the title my son earned…it sickens me.”

  Serafina pursed her lips with displeasure. She so wanted to ask this woman how Cyril had earned anything in his life. By sitting around on his aristocratic backside? By abusing anyone he considered beneath him? By being a pompous know-it-all when he was quite possibly the most stupid man she had ever had the displeasure to meet?

  Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to remind herself that his mother had loved him deeply. Almost to his detriment, for she had allowed him his every whim, which had never improved his personality.

  But his loss had clearly destroyed this woman.

  “I can imagine how difficult this must be for you,” she said softly, not meeting Lady Hartholm’s gaze for fear her true feelings would be clear. “But I cannot change what has already transpired. Is there anything my husband and I can do to ease this transition?”

  Lady Hartholm spun around and speared Serafina with a dark and angry glare. “Ease this transition? Yes, my dear, I think there is something.”

  Serafina moved forward a step. “Of course—please tell me.”

  “Die,” the other woman said. “You can both die like my son and let the title die with you. I would rather have it buried in the ground than belong to a Flynn like Raphael or Crispin. And you…you killed my son and you can rot with your new husband.”

  Serafina recoiled at the ugly, bitter words. “My lady!” s
he gasped. “I—I—”

  But there was nothing to say in the face of such hate and vitriol and madness. So she inclined her head slightly.

  “I’m so very sorry for your loss, my lady. I will leave you.”

  She backed from the room, noting how Cyril’s mother tracked her each and every move, her puffy eyes wide and wild. It was only in the foyer that Serafina turned her back and exhaled a breath she felt she had been holding for ages.

  “My carriage, please,” she managed to whisper to the dowager’s butler.

  She looked over her shoulder as she awaited his delivery, suddenly uneasy with the dowager being so close when her rage was a bubbling cauldron that felt ready to overflow.

  “Your Grace,” the butler said, pulling her from her thoughts and motioning for the front door and the carriage that had pulled up on the drive.

  She nodded and moved out into the fresh air, which she gulped in like a woman starved. Her footman nodded as he opened his door.

  “Tell Waters that I would like to go to Mrs. Richards’,” she said with a shiver as she looked back up at the dowager house. “I need to see her.”

  00

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Great God, how unpleasant,” Emma said, refreshing Serafina’s long-cold tea with a shake of her head. “But that woman was always hateful, just like her horrible son. You are better free of them.”

  Serafina sighed. “But in a way, I’m not free at all. She is still the dowager, Emma. And Rafe’s aunt. She can press her influence if she chooses to do so. And when she said we should die…”

  “Are you worried?” Emma cocked her head. “Honestly, it sounds like the ravings of a woman crazed by grief and…well, simple nastiness.”

  “Perhaps,” Serafina conceded, though the situation didn’t feel that straightforward.

  Emma shrugged. “She adored Cyril. She must feel his loss keenly.”

  “She does, I’m certain,” Serafina agreed. “And that I’m getting something good from this arrangement chafes her even more.”