The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

  In her room, a brilliant fire snapped, reminding her that in hours the whole household would be up. She pushed away from the door, then stopped after several steps. With the tilt of her head, she studied the fire once more. Why would the fire be so robust this time of the night? It should have burned to embers long before now.

  “Should I say good evening or good morning?” The low thrum of her brother’s voice broke the quiet. He sat in her favorite chair, an armless creation covered in a mauve-colored velvet.

  Her jubilation and merriment scattered like mice spying the cat in the kitchen.

  “I suppose the answer depends on whether you’ve been to bed or not,” he said. Alex’s gray eyes, a mirror image of hers, swept from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. “I discovered Tait is incredibly fond of sitting in the kitchen late at night. The first time, I thought it odd. Tonight, I thought it suspicious. At two o’clock this morning, I relieved him of his duty. There was no sense in all of us losing sleep. I told him I’d wait for you.”

  She didn’t look away, nor could she form a word in answer. Instinctively, she patted her hair to reassure herself the loose chignon she’d crafted in Paul’s bedroom wasn’t falling in a mass of black curls about her shoulders.

  “By your appearance, I’d say”—Alex rose slowly and held out his hand in invitation for her to sit in the chair opposite his—“you’ve already gone to bed. Since your bed is made, I assume you slept elsewhere.”

  She merely stared at him completely tongue-tied.

  “Southart?” His refined voice hinted at his vexation.

  What could she say? She loved Paul and wouldn’t hide the truth of her feelings for him. Collecting every scrap of composure, she took the seat opposite to Alex.

  She interlaced her fingers and rested her hands on her lap. She lifted her eyes to her brother. “Yes, I love him.”

  Alex squeezed his eyes shut and clenched a fist. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair and regarded her. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. The burning wood crackled in warning.

  “There’s only one thing to be done. I’ll call him out,” Alex declared in a whisper.

  “No, you won’t. To challenge him would destroy me.” Daphne gently shook her head. “I’ve loved him since”—she took a deep breath—“forever, Alex. He’s coming to see you tomorrow to discuss our marriage. Whether you withhold my dowry makes little difference.”

  “He’ll break your heart.” The deep baritone of her brother’s voice shot across the room.

  “On the contrary.” Daphne sat on the edge of her seat and leaned forward. Now was not the time to confront her brother. She needed to convince him that Paul was honorable and loved her. “Alex, he sees me,” she whispered.

  Her brother tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Sees you?”

  This was so difficult, but he deserved the truth. “For years, I’ve shrunk into myself until I finally became, for all purposes, invisible.” She stole a glance his way. Alex’s befuddlement was almost laughable.

  “You’re a beautiful woman. Think of all the men who’ve wanted your hand in marriage,” he offered. “You are not a wallflower.”

  Their eyes locked. His gray eyes glowed with an unmistakable pride and bemusement.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. There was little to be gained by quarreling. Alex truly was a wonderful man who loved her, but she had to make him understand. “There’s a huge difference. A wallflower wants to be seen. I, on the other hand, tried to stay hidden. I’ve never sought attention and have tried to be the perfect sister and the perfect daughter ever since Alice’s death.” She released a deep sigh. “I can’t do it anymore. It empties the soul, Alex.”

  “Why since Alice’s death?” His voice faded to nothing. The fine lines radiating around his eyes betrayed his pain.

  “Because we all ached so much from her death. None of us would talk of her. It was if she had disappeared from our lives and memories.” She hesitated for only a moment. “I blamed her and myself for her death.”

  Alex nodded. “I blamed myself, also.”

  “You did?” Her heart lurched at the obvious anguish on his face. “I thought I was the only one, since I knew what she’d done,” she whispered.

  “No, darling girl. She left me a note and told me not to blame Paul.” He took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “Paul had counseled her, but I thought … never mind what I thought. He tried to help, but I mistook his efforts for something else.” Alex shook his head slowly. “I always wondered what I could have done. I was head of the family. I should have realized how upset she was.”

  “I should have known, also. Then I was left with all this guilt.” She stared at the flame’s reflection against the carpet. “I thought if I was perfect, it might alleviate my culpability at being a failure as a sister.” She returned her attention to him. He needed comfort as much as she did. “But I discovered something.”

  “What, Daph?” he whispered softly.

  “I was only hurting myself. I tamped down all my wants and desires, even who I was. I tried to organize my life into a box with a compartment for every emotion. I thought if I could control such things…” She let the words fade to nothing as her throat burned in warning that she was about to succumb to tears. “That’s why I want to start my home for unwed mothers. I want to help women like Alice. I couldn’t help her, but perhaps I can help them. I think Alice would approve.”

  Alex nodded.

  “There’s more. Paul sees me. He doesn’t let me hide and helps me when the dark grief rises. He’s the first person who honestly sees me, and he loves me with all my faults and mistakes. When I grieve for Alice, he understands and doesn’t ignore me. He holds me and comforts me.”

  He blinked his eyes, not saying a word.

  “Alex,” Daphne whispered, “a wise man told me perhaps that there wasn’t anything we could have done. Maybe Alice wanted something else, and it wasn’t here on earth.” The fire crackled, encouraging her to continue. “I don’t know, but I find it comforting. I’ve tried putting my grief someplace safe, so I don’t have to carry it with me every hour of the day. I’m finding that helpful.”

  “That’s wise counsel. Is that what Paul told you?” he asked.

  She nodded. “He’s the first person I’ve been able to share my grief with.”

  Alex stared with an intensity that made her want to squirm. “Daphne, don’t mistake the brief appearance of Paul’s humanity for something more permanent. He maligned my wife in the past. I won’t let him do the same to you.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “He told me everything and is remorseful. He even apologized again to Claire before tonight’s—I mean last night’s—debacle of a dinner. If she can forgive him, can’t you?” Daphne leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You’ve always been an excellent judge of character. Paul’s a good man. You thought so at one time.”

  Alex gently shook his head.

  Daphne placed her hand on her brother’s arm. “He was your best friend. Plus, he puts me first in the way that you put Claire first in your life.” Her brother opened his mouth to refute her claim, but she held up her hand. “I’m not talking about being left in London. I’m referring to the feeling that you’re missing half your soul when your love is absent from your side. The same as if the world tilted in the wrong direction when the person you gave your heart to is elsewhere. Do you understand? Please tell me you do.”

  He nodded slightly. “Claire is everything to me. I should’ve been the one you turned to when you needed to talk about Alice. I’ve failed you.”

  Her breath caught at the pain etched across his face. “We’ve both made mistakes, but look at us now. We’re finally talking, and I can’t help but think Paul’s efforts with me have helped us become closer.”

  “Well, that’s a jump in logic, wouldn’t you say?” For the first time this evening, a smile tugged at his lips. “I love y
ou, Daphne.”

  “Prove it, then. Bless our union and welcome him into our family,” she whispered. “It means everything to me.”

  His eyes narrowed, then he sighed in resignation. “You’re asking a lot, Daph. But for you and your happiness, I agree to give it due consideration.” He stood and took her into his outstretched arms. He drew back and with his fingers tipped her chin so she faced him. “I’m a horrible brother, but I’ve always wanted you happy.”

  “You’re the best brother.” She hugged him as tightly as she could. “I’ve always loved you, too.”

  “If I agree to the marriage”—he smiled—“you’ll let me punch him at least once?”

  * * *

  If his father’s solicitor didn’t arrive within the hour, Paul had decided he’d leave for Pembrooke’s house. Securing Daphne’s hand in marriage was the only thing he could really concentrate on this morning. Since he’d waited for his father’s bloody letter for months, it could wait for him until the afternoon.

  Standing in front of an ornate mirror that practically covered the entire north wall, Paul straightened his cravat for the second time within five minutes. The noise from the click of two sets of heels on the flagstone hallway announced the solicitor’s impending arrival.

  Paul let out a disgruntled breath. He’d quickly rid himself of the man, then hurry along his way to see Pembrooke. He smoothed the blue wool morning coat, then turned to the door as his butler and the family solicitor entered.

  Morrison Lagan stood a few inches over five feet and had a receding hairline. In his mid-fifties, he’d served the family for over twenty years. He knew secrets about the old duke that would make the devil blush, but thankfully, Lagan had tight lips. One of the well-guarded secrets was that his father kept several mistresses close to various duchy estates. To the best of Paul’s recollection, his dear mother never discovered any of the women’s existence. If she did, she never acknowledged the duke’s sordid proclivities.

  His father may have found it acceptable behavior, but Paul found it—frankly—repugnant. For years, he’d observed the Duke of Langham, one of the most respected and admired men in the House of Lords. Langham and his duchess were devoted to each other, and they supported each other’s work. The duke helped the duchess with her charitable foundations, and the duchess helped the duke in his political works. Together, they were a strong and powerful presence to emulate. Both were deeply in love with each other after all their years together.

  A perfect marriage in Paul’s opinion. Like the one he wanted with Daphne. Like a moon emerging from a sea of clouds, his reasons became crystal clear. She loved him and thought him honorable. Just one glance his way with her silver eyes made him want to be the best man he could be for her and their children. The thought of holding a black-haired gray-eyed boy in his arms swept through him with a fierceness like a gale wind. Then, like a calming wind, he imagined a blond-haired blue-eyed girl clasping his hand, enchanting and captivating him just like her obsidian-haired mother.

  “Your Grace, Mr. Morrison Lagan is here to see you,” announced Ives.

  As soon as he finished with Lagan, he could attend to Daphne and start a new, more rewarding chapter of his life. With a smile on his face, Paul turned to his guest.

  “Thank you, Ives. You may leave us.” Paul returned to his desk.

  “Your Grace,” Lagan offered as he bowed deeply.

  Paul nodded in return. “Please sit.”

  The solicitor delved into a leather packet and retrieved several items, including a claret-colored missive with a matching seal. Paul’s name was written in iron gall ink on the outside of the note.

  “Your Grace, your request to rescind the bid on the Winterford House unfortunately is too late. The owner had already accepted it and signed the contract. I’m afraid you own the building now.” Lagan pushed a pair of wire-frame spectacles up the bridge of his nose. When he looked at Paul, his eyes appeared twice their normal size, making the man resemble an owl.

  Paul ran his hands through his hair, then rested his elbows on the desk. “I appreciate your help. Now I need you to start a search for another property close to that location.”

  Mr. Lagan widened his eyes. “Your Grace, there’s not much available in that area of town.”

  “Perhaps you could canvas the area and ask other owners if they’d be interested in selling?” He leaned back in his chair. “What else do you have for me?”

  The solicitor handed another folded missive to Paul.

  He had little doubt it was another gambling debt. He turned it over in his hands. “In his father’s bold handwriting, the words “To the spurious scourge of my existence” were written on the outside. “How much is the debt this time?”

  “Five pounds, Your Grace.”

  “Should I expect any more of these delightful gifts?” He didn’t hide the disparagement in his voice.

  “No, Your Grace.” The solicitor cleared his throat and stole a glance at his hand where he tightly held the final paper, the claret-colored missive written on the Barstowe stationery. “The previous Duke of Southart directed that I deliver this only after you had applied for a writ of summons and the Committee of Privileges had ruled you were the legitimate heir to the duchy. Now that you’ve taken your seat in the House of Lords, this will be the last responsibility I have to your father.”

  Paul stared at Lagan’s outstretched hand. Apparently nervous, the solicitor swallowed, causing his prominent Adam’s apple to bob up and down like a buoy in a choppy sea. With a nonchalant ease that belied the instinct to burn the offending missive, Paul took the letter.

  “It’s best if you read it first. I’ll answer any questions you may have.” Beads of perspiration dotted the man’s forehead. He pulled a clean but wrinkled handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blotted his face.

  “I take it that I’ll not be pleased with my father’s last diatribe against me,” Paul asked.

  The solicitor had the good manners to shake his head.

  Paul donned the eyeglasses that he used for correspondence. With a deep breath, he broke the seal and started to read the words his father had crafted.

  Southart,

  I can’t begin to tell you how sour your title tastes on my lips. I’m certain at my death, my mouth was twisted in disgust. But there’s no divine help to change life’s course at this point. If you’re reading this, then your half brother and I are both dead. A true loss for all. In his stead, you are now the Duke of Southart. I can only pray there is some smidge of honor in your debauched body.

  Paul ignored the insult as the words “half brother” transfixed his mind. Robbie was illegitimate? With his blood slowing to a crawl, Paul sat frozen. A roaring din of silence rang in his ears. He forced himself to continue reading his blackguard father’s words.

  You are not my son. But never fear, there’s ducal blood running through your veins. You see, your mother and the Duke of Renton … well, let’s just say that you were the result of their indiscretion. It shouldn’t come as a shock since you seem to be an expert at creating havoc. However, you deserve the whole story.

  My duchess—God rest her soul—was best friends with Renton’s duchess. Since childhood they remained close. When Renton’s wife died in childbirth, your mother went to console him at his ancestral estate with my blessing. Apparently, their grief led them to sleep together. When she told me of her condition, it didn’t take a logician to determine you weren’t mine. I’d been traveling the Continent on ducal business for over four months. Though she promised me it happened just once, you were the result.

  You always did have the devil’s luck.

  I tried to find a match for you with some distant Barstowe cousin, thus ensuring the next duke would have some familial blood in the next line. It was the least you could do for the duchy. Unfortunately, I could only find a spinster, a third cousin removed, but the woman was nigh near forty and, sadly, had the sense God gave a goose. Thus, I determined the chance of a ducal
heir too remote.

  I didn’t want you aware of the situation until you took your place as the new duke. You, as well as I, are aware that you can’t renounce the title. You’re stuck with me just as I am stuck with you.

  Though you don’t have my blood, you are of my duchess’s body. Believe it or not, I loved her. Because of that love, I tolerated you. In closing, I do apologize for not being a better father to you. Under the circumstances, you understand, I’m certain.

  Southart

  One last thought … though it’s your natural tendency, try not to damage the duchy too much during your lifetime.

  Paul embraced the silence as long as he could. Finally, wave after wave of shock pummeled him as he reread the letter again. Robbie wasn’t the half brother—he was.

  Paul swallowed the ugly truth.

  He was the bloody bastard.

  A bastard. A no-name. Since he’d inherited the title, he’d done his damnedest to make both his brother and father proud. God, what a wasted effort. For the love of heaven, his father’s insults on the previous gambling debts should have warned him. “Baseborn son,” “Misbegotten Mistake,” “spurious scourge”—it all made sense.

  He forced his gaze to Lagan. The poor solicitor shifted in his seat as if an army of ants crawled over him. With deliberate effort, Paul removed his eyeglasses and silently laid them on the table. “Does the Duke of Renton know that I’m his by-blow?”

  Lagan stared at the floor. “I’m uncertain, Your Grace.”

  Paul smirked at the courtesy but didn’t say a word. His father needn’t have worried. The title left a rancid taste in his mouth also.

  Without another word, Paul rose and left the solicitor sitting in the study alone. At that moment, the only thing he cared about was air. He needed fresh air to clear the swirl of putrid miasmas that surrounded him. A footman greeted him in the entry, but Paul couldn’t respond. His ability to form a coherent sentence had escaped him.