The Duke of Lies (The Untouchables Book 9)

by Darcy Burke

  She shrugged her curiosity away. She didn’t want to care about what happened to him. She didn’t even want to know him.

  And yet she must. He was her husband, by law, and he was here. He could claim his marital rights, and she’d have no quarrel. She could try to sue him for divorce…a near-hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat, and she worked to swallow it down.

  He took another step toward her, and she shrank back. He held up his hands. “I don’t mean to upset you. You need time to adjust. I understand. I do too.”

  The tension between them was palpable—her anxiety and his…surprise? Surely he would know how she would react to him? He’d delighted in frightening her, in keeping her in a state of wariness if not outright fear. He’d liked watching her cower.

  But this Rufus—for he was not the same—seemed to be in a state of wariness too, as if he wasn’t sure what to expect from her. Maybe he’d forgotten, and maybe whatever had happened to him had changed him enough to… To what? Make him tolerable? She couldn’t believe that was possible.

  They were thankfully interrupted by the arrival of the butler, Kirwin. His pale blue eyes widened as he saw Rufus. “Your Grace.” The words came out in half surprise and half question. He was so startled that he apparently forgot to bow.

  “Kirwin, it’s good to see you.”

  Verity blinked at her husband—that was going to take some getting used to. Had he really just said it was good to see someone?

  “And you, Your Grace. Your bags arrived from the stable, and they said they belonged to His Grace, but I didn’t believe them.”

  “And why would you?” Rufus said with that almost charming smile. “I’ve reappeared out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere, but it may as well have been. Suffice it to say I was taken away against my will, and it has taken me this long to return home.”

  Kirwin glanced toward Verity, and she could see he was still in a state of shock. As they all would likely be for quite some time. “Welcome home, sir. I’ll have your bags taken upstairs…” His voice trailed off as his gaze moved back to Verity.

  “I can move my things out of the ducal chamber.” She kept her eyes averted from Rufus. “I took the larger chamber a few years ago.”

  “That makes perfect sense, and I won’t ask you to leave it. Kirwin, put my things wherever you see fit.” Rufus looked to Verity. “Unless you have a preference?”

  He was asking for her preference? Oh, this was going to take more than getting used to. This was going to require a complete shift in her behavior and her thinking. If he remained like this. Perhaps as he settled back into his routine, he’d revert to the beast she’d married.

  Both Kirwin and Rufus watched her expectantly. “The Blue Room.” That was the bedroom next to the drawing room and the farthest one from her chamber.

  Kirwin nodded before shifting his attention to Rufus. “Do you require anything, Your Grace?”

  “A bath would be welcome. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. I’ll have it prepared at once.” Kirwin turned to go but then pivoted to look at Verity, his brow raised. “His lordship will be upstairs in the Guinea Room,” he said softly.

  Verity nodded at the butler. “Thank you, Kirwin.”

  The butler left, and she took a deep, sustaining breath.

  Rufus looked at her in question. “His lordship?”

  “The Earl of Preston.” When he seemed nonplussed, she said, “Your son.”

  He nodded briskly. “Of course. I’d forgotten he would hold the courtesy title.” He wiped a hand across his brow. “I was remiss. I should have asked after him directly. As I said before, this is all so strange.”

  “You know that you have a son?” He’d disappeared before she’d told him she was expecting.

  “I’d…heard.”

  She supposed that made sense. “Where did you come from? I mean, have you been traveling all over England?”

  “No, I arrived in Liverpool about a fortnight ago. I would have come sooner, but I wasn’t…in the best of shape.”

  Again, she wanted to know what he’d endured. A horrid part of her was glad he’d suffered. She could think of no one who deserved it more. But the thoughts made her feel small and wretched.

  She refocused on Beau—nothing mattered next to him. “So you heard of Beau on your way here.”

  “Beau?”

  “That’s what we call him. His name is Augustus Christopher Beaumont.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Christopher?”

  “That was his great-grandfather’s name. Have you forgotten?”

  “Not at all. I’m just surprised. I would’ve expected Archibald to be one of his names.”

  She went completely still, expecting him to rail at her for not using his father’s name. However, Augustus was the one who’d been kind to her. If only he hadn’t died just a month after she’d wed Rufus. His presence had kept Rufus from devolving into a complete blackguard, and once he was gone, things had changed for the worse.

  “I like it very much,” he said softly, surprising her more than anything else that day. And that was saying quite a bit. Was this how it was going to be? She would stare at him in disbelief as he continued to behave completely out of character, all while her insides curled in turmoil, awaiting the snap in his temper.

  “He’s a very good boy,” she said cautiously. “I need to speak with him, to prepare him before you can meet.”

  “I would expect nothing less. I will let you decide when and where.”

  “Your kindness and understanding is more than I could have hoped for. I’ll talk to him after his lessons. If all goes well, you can meet him this evening.”

  “I should like that, thank you. And now, I believe I’ll have that bath.” He turned toward the stairs that rose against the far wall, and she watched a frown crease his profile.

  “The Blue Room hasn’t changed,” she said. “Do you remember where it is?”

  He looked at her in consternation. “I’m afraid I don’t.” A low chuckle sounded in his chest.

  Smiling and laughing. She could count the number of times she’d seen him do that on one hand. “Up the stairs and through the drawing room, first room on the left.”

  He stared at her a moment, making her mildly uncomfortable, but not for the reasons she would have expected. He looked at her with something he never had before—curiosity. “I want to be sure you understand that I don’t expect our marriage to resume as it once was.”

  As it once was… Was he trying to say he was going to be a better man? She couldn’t bring herself to ask. What he’d put her through, that horrid, dark time—it wasn’t something she talked about. It wasn’t something she thought about. And, as he’d indicated about his time away, she preferred to leave it in the past.

  “You seem…changed. Perhaps we should behave as if we just met.” She made this offer but wasn’t certain she could forget what he’d done, who he was. Or who he’d been, if he truly had changed.

  “That seems a wise idea.” His head dipped briefly. “Let me know what you want to do regarding the boy. I will await your direction. Until later, then.” He inclined his head before stalking toward the stairs and climbing to the upper floor. She watched him disappear into the drawing room and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  Her body wanted to collapse, but she fought the drain of tension and anxiety that threatened to send her into a puddle. Instead, she turned, and made her way from the King’s Hall through the Great Hall to the stairs that led to her private quarters in the corner opposite the drawing room.

  She went up to the study that adjoined the ducal chamber and strode immediately to her writing desk, where she penned a short letter to her cousin Diana, begging her to come at once.

  Verity’s hand shook as she finished. She needed her cousin, the person to whom she was closest in the entire world, the person who would help her face what she must.

  Rufus was home.

 
Gone were her plans to reclaim her future and forge a path for herself and Beau. A scant hour ago, she’d been filled with hope and excitement as she planned for the changes that would allow her to fully inhabit her role as duchess and ensure her son became the duke she wanted him to be.

  Now she had to answer to her husband once more. A man filled with more cruelty and anger than ought to be possible for a person to feel. And yet, the man who’d arrived today was not him. He was perhaps something worse. An unknown who could take away every freedom she currently enjoyed. Or more terrible still: her son.

  No, she wouldn’t fall to pieces. She would hold strong—for Beau. She stood to take the letter downstairs and vowed that she wouldn’t let Rufus ruin their lives. She’d protect herself and Beau at any cost.

  Chapter 3

  The steam from the bath had long since ebbed, and the water had gone tepid. He stood, sluicing water over the edge of the tub, and reached for the towel that sat on a nearby table.

  Stepping from the tub, he dried off, then deposited the towel over the back of a chair pushed under a wide oak desk. He padded into the small dressing chamber adjoining the bedroom and found his meager belongings tucked away.

  There wasn’t much to choose from, but he found something suitable to wear. Tomorrow, he would need to find a tailor to come and measure him and make new clothing. Unless… Had the duchess saved any of his clothing? Should he ask?

  Damn, she’d been skittish. But what did he expect after a nearly seven-year absence.

  He turned to the glass to tie his cravat and paused at the reflection staring back at him. He didn’t look like a duke.

  Probably because he wasn’t one.

  Christopher Powell blinked. What the hell was he doing? If he went through with this… He snorted. Too late. He’d already committed.

  The cravat almost tied itself as his fingers threaded the silk. It wasn’t the same as knotting rope on his ship, but he was as good at either. He supposed a duke needed a valet, but he didn’t.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, Kit turned from the glass and finished buttoning his waistcoat, frowning at the lackluster gray fabric. Yes, new clothing would be necessary since the fire had claimed most everything he’d owned, including his finery.

  He reached for his dark blue coat and shrugged it on before smoothing his hair back from his forehead. And now what? He couldn’t leave his room for fear he’d run into the boy.

  Good Lord, he had a son. Or had to pretend he did anyway. When the duchess had mentioned him, he’d tried to cover for not asking about him straightaway. But then it had seemed she hadn’t expected him to know, so he’d had to cover for that too. Hell, he was going to have to be on his toes.

  At least the boy hadn’t known him—Kit could perhaps relax with him. No, he couldn’t do that. Hell, he didn’t even know what to say to him. Perhaps he should consider that first.

  He turned back to the glass and smiled. “Beau, I’m your father.”

  He winced and tried again. “Look at what a big boy you are. I’m pleased to meet you, I’m your father.”

  Scowling he turned away from the glass and chastised himself once more. This hadn’t been his plan. He’d planned to find his way onto the estate and into the castle from which he’d steal something valuable but of little import that would scarcely be missed. The place had to be full of costly artifacts that would provide the remaining funds he needed to replace his ship and hire a new crew. He doubted he’d be able to recruit any of his old hands, but he’d try. They’d had to move on after Kit’s ship had gone down.

  No, becoming a duke hadn’t been his plan, but faced with the opportunity, he’d been loath to pass it up. So he hadn’t.

  And here he was, the Duke of Blackburn, and he’d be damned if he’d regret it.

  A knock on his door took him from his thoughts. Grateful for the interruption, he stalked through the chamber and found Kirwin standing in the hall. He remembered Kirwin and had suffered a moment’s apprehension as he waited for the butler to recognize him in return. But he hadn’t. What had Kit expected? He’d met the man nearly two decades ago.

  “Your Grace,” the butler began. He still carried the glimmer of surprise in his light blue eyes. “Her Grace has requested you meet her and his lordship in the drawing room in a quarter hour.”

  A burst of anxiety broke over Kit, and sweat dappled his neck. “Thank you, Kirwin.”

  “May I say, sir, that you seem a bit different, but then you’ve been gone a long time. Her Grace explained what happened, and I must offer my condolences for what you’ve surely endured.”

  Kit felt a bit horrible for lying to this kind man, but it was necessary to achieve his ends—ends that would not adversely affect any of these people. “I appreciate that, Kirwin.”

  The butler offered a slight bow before adding. “Dinner is served at six in the small dining room.” Then he took himself off.

  Kit closed the door, and pushed out a pent-up breath. What the bloody hell was he thinking? Of course this could adversely affect these people. He was about to tell a boy who wasn’t his son that he was his father.

  Fuck.

  He should go. Immediately. Before any damage could be done.

  Except, if they were to meet in a quarter hour, she’d probably already told the boy.

  Get a hold of yourself. The voice in the back of his head was stern and insistent. He was only taking that which should have been his. And judging from the duchess’s reaction, she wouldn’t miss him when he left. On the contrary, he’d be willing to bet his new ship that she’d be glad to see him go.

  He took a deep breath and reined in control of his senses. He could manage this. He’d faced and defeated far worse than… Christ, he didn’t even know her name. The Duchess of Blackburn. He wouldn’t have to call her by name, for he had no plans to be that familiar.

  Smoothing his palms over the lapels of his coat, he walked to the door and left the room. The drawing room was to his immediate right. He remembered it well, as it was the primary living space of the castle. Some of the other rooms—such as the small dining room—would take some effort to find. If caught as he wandered about, he would easily explain that he was simply relearning his home by exploring every room.

  Yes, the drawing room looked much the same, though the furniture had been replaced. There was still a case stuffed with books in the corner, the wide hearth surmounted by a painting of a long-ago duke and duchess seated in the King’s Hall as they granted an audience to their serfs, and a framed map of the estate from the medieval period hung opposite the fireplace.

  Kit had studied that map endlessly during his single visit and had traversed every inch he’d seen. He crossed to it, and his gaze fell on a table beneath. Scattered across the top was a collection of toy soldiers, reminding him of what he’d consigned himself to…

  “Papa!”

  The cry startled him as he turned back toward the corridor leading to his bedchamber. A small, dark-haired boy rushed to him and threw his arms around Kit’s legs. He’d expected the lad to be reticent and wary, as his mother had been. He’d never imagined this warm reception—or the burst of warmth he felt in return.

  Kit patted the boy’s head, then took a step backward. “Let me look at you.”

  Beau—he looked like a Beau, if anyone could really look like a name, because he was a rather handsome child with bright eyes and a strong chin—stood tall and puffed out his chest. “I’m six.”

  “Of course you are. Although you could easily pass for seven.”

  A grin spread over the boy’s features, lighting his green eyes. Green. Like his. Well, that was something, he supposed.

  Beau took Kit’s hand, and though it was a small, simple gesture, he felt it all the way to his toes as the boy dragged him toward the settee. “Tell me all about where you were, Papa. Mama said it was a terrible ordeal and that you wouldn’t want to speak of it, but I said you’d tell me.” He let go of Kit’s hand and sat on the settee. As soon as
Kit dropped down beside him, he scooted as close as he could. “I told Mama you’d been kidnapped and held captive. Why else wouldn’t you have come home?”

  Why else indeed. “Did she tell you I spent much of my time aboard a ship?”

  He glanced toward the doorway where the duchess still lingered. She was tall with a lithe, graceful frame. Nearly black hair framed her heart-shaped face, which was punctuated with a small, slender nose and pert, pink lips. Her eyes were dark and long-lashed and, he suspected, seductive if she chose. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she wore the same look of guarded skepticism she’d had since his arrival. That was a long way from seduction, and he had to wonder why he’d even thought of that.

  “No,” Beau said. “Can you sail a ship, Papa?”

  Kit turned his attention to Beau. “Yes. Maybe someday I’ll teach you.” He winced inwardly knowing that would never come to pass. Damnation, this was a terrible idea.

  Beau’s green eyes glowed with excitement. “Oh yes! But first you much teach me to shoot and wield a sword. I’ve already learned to ride, though Mama says I need much more practice.”

  “You should always listen to your mother.” He looked over at her again and caught the flash of surprise in her gaze. Christ almighty, what kind of bastard had the duke been? Given her demeanor, Kit could only imagine a right despicable one.

  “That’s what Thomas told me today too,” Beau said. Who was Thomas? “Mama knows everything.”

  Kit couldn’t contain his laugh. His mother, though she’d died when he was only eight, had known everything too. She’d managed their household with strict precision and a wealth of love for both him and his father. Her death had decimated their tiny family, and it had spawned the end of Kit’s innocence. “Yes, mothers usually do,” he said.

  Beau’s gaze turned pleading as he stared up at Kit. “Tell me about the bad men who took you, Papa. Did you have to kill them?”

  “Beau!” The duchess’s sharp, feminine tone sounded through the room, drawing both him and the child to whip their heads in her direction. She’d left the doorway and now came toward them, her brows pitched low on her forehead. “That’s an awful question. He didn’t kill anyone. And even if he had, you’re far too young to hear such gruesome stories.”