The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  “Name your price, and I’ll gladly pay it. You can make a nice, tidy profit, and we’ll both be happy.” All the unruly noise dissolved into nothing as Paul stared at Richmond, and he returned the favor. They were like two stags ready to fight to the death over a doe, but with one major difference. Paul loved Daphne with every breath while Richmond wanted to destroy her.

  Ignoring the calls to take his turn, Richmond fondled the dice in his hand like a lover. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace, but why would I want to do that? You’re aware of the entries in this journal.”

  “No, I haven’t read them, nor will I,” Paul said.

  “Really? How interesting.” Richmond narrowed his eyes. “To say the writings were earth-shattering and sensational in the content is like saying the Thames is nothing more than a stream running through London.” Richmond leaned close enough to whisper, “There’s enough material there to publish one entry per day for the next decade. I’ll be rich beyond all imagination. Everyone in London will want to read the titillating and sordid saga of the young aristocratic lady. I must ask, Your Grace, what could you possibly offer me that would convince me to part with such a treasure?”

  “Ten thousand pounds,” Paul countered.

  Richmond rolled his eyes. “Tick tock, Southart. The hazard table is calling me. If you don’t have anything more valuable than that parsimonious offering, then I shall return to the game.”

  Everything stilled within Paul except his heart, which beat at a savage frenzy. A tinny sound invaded his ears, and he couldn’t respond. Richmond tilted his head, and his gaze pierced Paul.

  If he didn’t do something, Daphne would become a pariah in society. He was already saddling her with unhappiness once he bowed out of his offer of marriage. If Richmond published her journal and her identity was discovered, she risked society shunning her at every event. All potential marriage prospects would back away from her as if she were infected with a fatal disease. The taint would eventually bleed over to Alex, Claire, and their children.

  Like a pebble thrown into a still pond, the scandal would extend outward until it tainted more than the immediate family.

  Paul made the only decision that could save Daphne from more ruin. There was one thing he could offer that would entice the man before him to release the diary.

  Could he really throw his life away?

  The simple answer was yes. He closed his eyes, then smiled. There was no pleasure, only pain, in his decision, but he’d never let Richmond know how he’d gutted Paul’s future.

  Richmond made a move to return to the table, but Paul grabbed him by the arm in a vise-like hold to keep him from moving another inch. “I have something much more valuable than a girl’s diary,” he taunted.

  Richmond dropped his gaze to where Paul’s hand had gripped him. With a scowl, Richmond heaved a sigh. “Release me, and I’ll give you my full attention.”

  Paul nodded and let go. “In exchange for the diary, I’ll give you the story of a lifetime, one that might possibly change the course of history. Political alliances and financial deals will crumble. The story I give you would ruin one of the oldest and most respected families in all of England. Your name would be synonymous with the family’s downfall.”

  “You’ve piqued my interest, Southart. What’s the secret?” asked Richmond.

  “The truth of my birth.” Paul stood silent as the wheels turned in Richmond’s head.

  A smile tugged at Richmond’s mouth. “We have a deal, Your Grace.”

  His response reminded Paul of the raven once more, the way the man’s eyes sparked in interest. If they find a shinier object than the one in their custody, the birds would readily drop their possession for the gaudier bauble.

  The truth of a duke’s birth was much more dazzling than a lady’s journal.

  “Shall we do the exchange now?” Paul offered.

  “No,” Richmond answered. “My man of affairs took it to my office. Something that valuable shouldn’t be treated carelessly. I have business all day tomorrow. Make it the next. I want you to come to my office. It’ll be delightful doing business with you, Your Grace.”

  The condescending look in his eyes made Paul’s skin crawl. Once he told everything to Richmond, all ties to his burgeoning honor would be severed. He’d lose his standing in society, and political allies in the House of Lords would forsake him like fleas on a dead dog. As importantly, he’d break his promise to Robbie, all the while descending into the bowels of disreputability, a hauntingly familiar place for him.

  But sacrificing his own dreams and reputation for Daphne would allow him to live with his failure and the doubtless demise of the duchy. That was some comfort. He’d protect Daphne with his life. The loss of his reputation was nothing. He’d thrown it away before. Yet there was a deeper, fresher wound that bled and threatened to fester—a breach that would never heal. The gaping hole in his heart would never be repaired. He loved Daphne with every fiber of his being and hated that she’d be hurt by his actions.

  But he couldn’t see another path to take.

  Without a word, Paul turned on one heel and left the establishment. His next course on the path of total annihilation required that he see Daphne, the love of his life, and find a way to make her hate him.

  Forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Normally, the floral window seat in Daphne’s bedroom was her favorite place in the house. She could stare out the window at the garden below and imagine all sorts of fanciful wishes for her life. Sometimes, she’d remember Alice. The painful memories had diminished in potency since Paul had entered her life again. This morning she had wanted to plan her marriage and subsequent move to Southart Hall, but her dreams had dispersed like dandelion seeds in a wind gust.

  She tilted her head back until it rested on the recess of the wall next to the window. Paul hadn’t come to see Alex as he’d promised. If busy or indisposed, he’d surely have sent her word.

  The hair lifted on the back of her neck. Immediately, she sat up. What if he lay ill in bed without anyone but servants to care for him? What if he couldn’t call on her? That would explain his absence. But he would have had a footman deliver a note. Something dire must have happened to him. Her chest tightened at the thought.

  A brisk knock on the door broke the silence, then Mavis slipped inside. “My lady, His Grace, the Duke of Southart, is downstairs in the front salon. He’s asked to see you.” Mavis’s gaze perused Daphne from top to bottom, and the maid smiled reassuringly. “I’m certain His Grace will agree with me that you’re a vision this afternoon, ma’am.”

  Daphne reached Mavis’s side in two strides. “Thank you.” She squeezed her maid’s hand in relief. “Silly of me, but I’d wondered if he’d forgotten his promise to call today.”

  “And why would you think that, Lady Daphne?” Mavis’s brows slowly rose a fraction of an inch. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Indeed. That’s all that matters.” Daphne sat on the edge of the bed to put on her slippers. “Thank you, Mavis.”

  Within minutes, Daphne swept into the salon. When her gaze found Paul studying the fire, her heartbeat accelerated in excitement. He must not have heard her enter, as he didn’t spare a glance her way. She shut the door for privacy.

  “Hello, Paul.”

  He slowly turned. The slump of his shoulders and the tortured dullness in his eyes reflected a man in pain. She rushed to embrace him.

  “What’s happened?” Before she could touch him, he stepped away.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the floor momentarily. “We should sit.” He glanced at the door. “Is your maid coming?”

  “No. As we’re to be married, there’s no need for a chaperone, particularly after the night we shared together,” she teased. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Instead of answering with an expected quip, he took a deep breath and extended his hand to a sitting area close to the fire. “I suppose it’s best if Mavis isn’t here. We’ll
need privacy.”

  Daphne bit the inside of her cheek as she chose the sofa thinking they could sit together. He took the red brocade chair next to the sofa.

  He rested his elbows on his knees and once again stared at his clasped hands. The longcase clock marked the seconds, and each one grew more ominous the longer he sat silent. Unsmiling, he finally spoke. “I’m at a loss as to where to start.”

  “Tell me.” Her chest tightened, but she pushed aside the dread that thrummed through her veins.

  When he shifted his gaze from his hands to hers, the intense pain in his eyes caused her breath to hitch. “I received a letter from the old Duke of Southart this morning.”

  “Your father?”

  “I wouldn’t call him that,” Paul said brusquely.

  “I wouldn’t call him that either. But after all these months, why?” She shook her head slightly. Whatever was in it had shaken him to the core.

  “Perhaps he thought the day of reckoning could no longer wait. Macabre, isn’t it, that he writes to me after death?” Without waiting for her to answer, he continued, “I discovered”—his gaze latched on to hers—“I’m not his son. I’m Renton’s bastard.”

  She sat stock-still as the shock of his words pounded her.

  “Earlier, I visited Renton to confront him. When I realized he didn’t know, I was, well, rather angry and belligerent.” A muscle clenched along his jaw. “A typical day for me.”

  The cynicism in the remark deserved a rebuke for belittling himself, but she recognized that he was trying to hide his anguish. “Go on,” she said.

  “Your brother happened to be there, along with Somerton. I’m afraid I said some hateful things to Pembrooke.” He glanced at the window as he drummed his fingers on the chair as if anxious to escape. Eventually, he turned back to her. “Daphne, there’s no easy way to say this. The truth is I can’t marry you.”

  “Why?” Her thoughts spiraled in confusion.

  “I’m a bastard,” he said forcefully. “You better than anyone realize the impact of that simple truth on any marriage and offspring from such a marriage. After what you went through with Alice, I’ll not let you become fodder for the gossipy ton because of my illegitimacy.”

  “I don’t care about that. If I did, I wouldn’t be establishing a charity for unwed mothers.”

  “You should,” he said quietly. “My God, look at me, Daphne. I look just like Somerton.”

  Tears burned, but she blinked them back. He stood and she matched his movement.

  “Somerton? Just because of your blond hair and blue eyes?” She forced herself to study him. Their coloring was the same and they both bore a slight resemblance, but that was all. “You and half the men in Debrett’s Peerage have those same features. Families as old as ours have marriages that have intertwined for centuries. We’re all related in some way.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Daphne, I love you too much to—” He tipped his head and stared at the ceiling. “I was going to say ruin you, but I’ve already accomplished that.”

  “Oh, my God.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You didn’t ruin me.” One slipped free, and she swiped it away with her hand. “You saved me.”

  “Saved you? More like destroyed you. Christ, I should have never touched you. But selfish bastard that I am, I took full advantage.” He laughed, but it held no humor, only pain.

  The desolation painted on his face was perfectly understandable. He’d lost his family and his identity. His actions resembled those of an injured animal that went on the offense to protect itself from further harm. She was desperate to hold him in her arms and soothe his pain.

  If they could lock themselves away from the world for a week, she was confident she could help him through this. She took a step forward, and immediately he retreated in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t, Daphne. This is hard enough to explain. If I touch you, I’ll…” He walked to the window and gazed outside.

  “You’ll what?” She didn’t move an inch.

  “I may never let go.” His hoarse voice betrayed his agony. “But I promised myself I’d get through this without touching you.”

  She faltered in how to respond to his distance as the silence between grew into a chasm that couldn’t be breached. Finally, he returned his attention to her, but it was as if she was invisible again. He just stared straight through her.

  “If you find yourself with child, we’ll find a way to protect both you and the babe. Let me talk to Devan. If worse comes to worst, he’ll marry you.” The expression on his face was blank—almost lifeless. Her breath hitched at the sight, and she stopped. This man had taught her to believe in herself. He’d taught her how to shed her invisibility. How could he not feel anything?

  “Stop it, right now. You can’t decide this unilaterally.” She let her anger and hurt spill into the room. “None of this makes any difference to me. I don’t want you for your ancestry or title. I love you. I want a life with you and only you.”

  “I’m sorry, Daphne.” His remorse and anguish were evident from the lines radiating around his eyes. “I wanted a life with you, too. But as a bastard, I’m no one. I have nothing to offer you.” He gathered his coat, gloves, and hat. “I’ll take my leave.” He stood slowly and bowed. “Even a bastard like me possesses a few principles. I made a promise to find your journal. Once I have it, I will send it to you through Devan within the next couple of days. Never worry, its secrecy will be protected from prying eyes.” He made a step toward her, then stopped with a clenched fist by his side. The hunger and longing of his expression clear.

  “For our sakes, don’t do this.” Her throat tightened, but she fought to maintain control. “Don’t throw us away.”

  “Moonbeam, that’s what I was born to do. I destroy things.” Without another word, he quickly exited the room, leaving her with only pain and disappointment for company.

  All she wanted to do was disappear and become invisible again. Only then could she grieve for both of them.

  If she was hidden no one else would see the carnage that bloody letter had wrought on both of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Paul rested his elbows on his knees and stared while Devan read the officious letter from the old duke. From the pinched look on his friend’s face, the missive had shocked him as much as, if not more than, Paul.

  “Your Grace,” Devan choked out in obvious discomfort. “This is inconceivable.”

  Paul studied his hands. His had always been larger and his fingers longer than Robbie’s hands. There were so many clues about his bastardy, and he’d never seen them. Paul closed his eyes and let the weight of Southart’s revelation settle once again. Once he talked to Richmond, his life, the one he’d valiantly tried to create after the loss of his family, would forever be destroyed. His life with Daphne, the only pure thing he’d ever thought to create, would be shattered. He took a shuddering breath and finally raised his gaze to Devan.

  “You simply cannot give Richmond this story.” Devan’s voice had mellowed into the familiar tone he used when consoling Paul during his grief. “You’ll be sentencing yourself to a life of censure from society.”

  “There’s no other avenue. Daphne will not be sacrificed to that reprobate like a lamb led to slaughter.” Paul straightened in his seat. “Besides, don’t my previous actions and decisions in life make sense now? I was destined to portray the spurious blackguard, since it’s the truth of my birth.”

  Devan shook his head. “Nonsense. You’ve changed your life. This”—he waved the letter in the air—“proves nothing about who you are as a man. The only thing it offers is an explanation for why your father was such an arse to you.”

  “My father is the Duke of Renton,” Paul countered.

  The door to his study burst open, and Pembrooke and Somerton stormed through the room. If they’d come to battle and conquer everyone in their path, they wouldn’t find any opposition from Paul. He didn’t even rise at their entrance.


  Clearly out of sorts, Ives followed in their wake. “I apologize for the interruption, Your Grace, but they refused to listen that you weren’t receiving.”

  “It’s a matter of urgency,” Pembrooke stated.

  “Thank you, Ives. That’ll be all.”

  As soon as the door closed, Somerton made his way to Paul’s side and plopped on the sofa beside him. Pembrooke followed but sat on the sofa next to Devan facing Paul.

  Paul leaned back and regarded the two. At one point in time, these two had been his best friends and best allies. “You both probably want to kill me. I only ask that you wait. I have an appointment with Martin Richmond tomorrow morning.”

  “For what purpose?” Pembrooke asked in a deceptively calm manner.

  Paul knew that voice. The marquess probably wanted to thrash him on the spot—the thought was appealing—but he’d not allow it until he had Daphne’s journal in Devan’s hands. “Richmond has something of value that belongs to someone who means the world to me. In exchange for the truth of my birth, Richmond has agreed to give it to me.”

  A cold silence descended that froze his three visitors in their seats.

  “I want to share something with you. Hopefully, it’ll change your mind.” After an agonizing eternity, Somerton cleared his throat. “My childhood was a lonely existence, as our father wanted nothing to do with me.”

  Paul recoiled at the words “our father.”

  “Ever since I was a little boy, I wanted a brother, someone to cherish as family. I prayed for that every night.” Somerton’s normally deep voice crackled with emotion. “Now, after all these years, my prayers have been answered. And”—he closed his eyes for a moment betraying his poignant emotion—“our father is a much kinder and gentler man now. He will come to love you as he’s done with me. As your brother, I cannot allow you to throw this gift away. You’ll be ruined.”

  Paul bit the inside of his cheek at the bittersweet thought that he had gained a brother in this horrid manner.