Dare to Love a Duke Page 20

  “There’s nothing—”

  “Tommy.” Her gaze was serious. “Please. You can unburden yourself to me. I promise that whatever you say, I won’t fall to the ground with the fits.”

  He set his knife and fork down. Damn it. This had to be done, and he both abhorred and welcomed it.

  There’s nothing to be done but face this. You owe it to Maeve, and to yourself.

  After a long moment, he said, “There are many forces—Lord Stacey’s father included—that want me to fall into line and do what’s expected of me.”

  She looked at him with her piercing, astute gaze. “And what do you want?”

  “To create change in the world.” He thought back to the revelations he’d made on the club’s roof, and again he felt that dual sense of excitement and dread. “I’ve a tremendous amount of influence now. I want to use that influence to shape England into a better country, one that doesn’t cling to outdated prejudice to ensure that a few people hold the reins of power.”

  He sat back, slightly stunned. Speaking all this aloud made it even more real, more necessary.

  “I’m glad, Tommy,” Maeve said, her eyes shining. “I want you to act from your heart, not a sense of duty. Something’s holding you back, though. What is it?”

  Unable to meet her gaze, he glanced away. Now that the moment was here, getting the words out of his mouth seemed an impossible task. This could end his relationship with his sister, and to lose her would be like cutting out his heart and expecting him to go on living.

  Softly, she said, “It’s me, is it not? You’re protecting me.”

  Stiffly, he nodded. “Acting from my heart . . .” His words sounded gruff, almost severe. “It means opposing the Duke of Brookhurst. And if I do, the duke will forbid Lord Stacey from marrying you.”

  A long silence followed, and when Tom looked back at his baby sister, her brow was furrowed in thought.

  “Oh, Tommy . . .” She rested her head in her cupped hand.

  “I’m sorry, Maeve.” He reached for her, and while she didn’t take his hand, she didn’t pull away, either.

  “The price of your conscience is considerable,” she said after several moments. Her voice was low, barely audible.

  “I wish it came with some other cost.” Regret tightened his throat. “Brookhurst’s powerful, and of a certain my crossing him will close doors to me, but that’s nothing, truly nothing, by comparison to what it will cost you. It’s . . . a damned conundrum.”

  Maeve got to her feet and paced to the window. Tom stood, but when he moved to follow her, she held out her hand in a silent demand for silence and space. He could only watch, and wait.

  When he’d been eighteen, and home on holiday from school, one day he’d gone off on his own to meet a girl in the village. The whole way there, as he’d hurried down the bridle path, he’d thought only of the pleasure he was soon to have. Halfway to the village, though, he’d become aware that someone followed him.

  He’d spun around, only to find Maeve in her grass-stained pinafore, trying to keep up on her short, little girl legs. But instead of looking guilty for being caught away from home and away from her nurse, she’d smiled at him.

  “Go home, Maeve,” he’d said, trying to sound stern like their father.

  “I’m coming with you, Tommy,” she’d announced firmly. “We’ll go to the village and I’m going to buy you a boiled sweet. I saved for it. See?” She’d rooted around in the pocket of her pinafore and produced a tiny handful of coins.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I told Cook that I’d peel potatoes and collect eggs.” She had said this proudly.

  “You forced him to give you his own money?” He had shaken his head. “Maeve, he works for us.” Tom would have to compensate Cook for the loss of his hard-earned coin.

  Maeve’s eyes had filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Tommy.” She’d dropped the coins to the path. “You’re not here mostly and I wanted to get you a boiled sweet because I love them.”

  All Tom’s annoyance had scattered like so many scraps of paper cast onto the wind. Jesus, God, but he loved her.

  “Come on, then.” Tom had crouched down and collected her coins, putting them into his own pocket to return to Cook later. “Let’s get ourselves some boiled sweets and maybe even a berry cake, if they have them.” He’d stood and held out his hand to her.

  She’d run to him immediately, sliding her slightly sticky little hand into his. Together, they’d walked into the village and he’d gotten her the promised sweets and cake. When the girl he was supposed to meet marched by the shop window, fire in her eyes because he’d forsaken her, he’d had not a single regret.

  He could lose that. Lose Maeve.

  Anguish spilled acidly through his veins, burning him from the inside out. For thirty-two years, he’d been physically a man, but in his heart, he’d been a boy, free from making decisions that cost him anything more than a few hours’ pleasure. But this choice . . . this would surely kill him.

  No, it wouldn’t kill him. He’d survive, and have to find a way to live without Maeve’s bright flame illuminating his life.

  “Maeve,” he said on a rasp.

  “If the Duke of Brookhurst’s disapproval keeps Hugh away,” she said at last, turning back to face him, “I don’t want him in my life.”

  He started. He couldn’t have heard right, not when her choice meant losing the man she loved. “Are you . . . certain?”

  “Quite.” Her smile was brave, though he could see the effort it cost her. “We’re people of principle, us Powell siblings.”

  Relief crashed through him, nearly making him stagger on his feet. Yet he ached for her, too, because certainly she would soon face her own heartbreak when Lord Stacey disappeared.

  Sometimes, life was a goddamned bastard.

  “That we are.” He took her hand in his, and was plunged back into the past, on that bridle path, grasping her little hand that was so small yet held so much power. “Thank you, little bird. To be sure, there’s trouble ahead. Da’s old friends won’t like my new course.”

  Her lips curved slightly. “Remember how I climbed that tree, the big oak, and I got so scared I couldn’t climb down?”

  “I do. You screamed fit to dig furrows in the earth.”

  He’d stood at the foot of the oak, praying whatever deity was listening would keep tiny Maeve safe and whole.

  “You just charged up after me, never worrying about breaking your own neck.” Her gaze softened. “My big brother’s afraid of nothing.”

  His lips quirked into a wry smile. “God help me be the man my little sister believes I am.”

  Somehow, he managed to drag himself through the remainder of the day. Though it was technically Saturday, enough work had piled up in his absence that he could not ignore it until Monday. He sequestered himself in his study to catch up.

  All the while, Monday hung over his head like a sword. A prison bill was coming up, and he knew how he had to vote—but it felt like pulling the trigger and waiting two days for the bullet to slam into his chest.

  For all this, for the magnitude of what his decision meant, his mind refused to stay where he needed it. The damned thing kept rocketing back to Lucia—where was she at that very moment and what was she thinking, hopefully of him?—and he found himself staring off into nothingness.

  When he discovered that for fifteen minutes he’d been reading the same line in a document detailing Monday’s parliamentary schedule, he cast the paper aside before raking his hands through his hair.

  It was useless. He knew his mind on the matter, and to try to attempt anything remotely productive was futile. He stalked from his study and spent the rest of the day playing lawn bowls in the garden with Maeve. After supper, they included their mother in a game of spillikins.

  It was all very normal and calm, and if he was quietly going mad because he wanted to saddle his fastest horse and ride back to Lucia, he kept that madness carefully contained. No
one noticed.

  Except he returned to the parlor after using the water closet to find his mother and sister on the sofa whispering to each other. They abruptly broke apart at his entrance, and while Maeve fixed a bright smile on her face, his mother quickly walked to the fire and poked it with an iron as if she was Hestia, tending the hearth of Olympus.

  “You looked like a pair of conspirators.”

  “Oh,” his mother said in an offhand voice, “we were merely talking of the weather. It should be fine and clear tomorrow, for all that it’s heading into winter.”

  “It’s not like you, Mam.” He flung himself down in a nearby upholstered chair.

  “To discuss the weather?”

  “To avoid saying what you think of me directly to my face. You’ve always been very free with your opinions about my life.”

  “About everyone’s lives,” Maeve added, then blinked innocently when her mother shot her a fierce look.

  “Can’t a mother care for the well-being of her children?”

  “Perhaps we should have this conversation when you aren’t brandishing a fire iron,” Tom suggested.

  His mother set the metal rod down before setting her hands on her hips. “You do seem distracted lately and not quite yourself, and there’s one remedy that will surely calm you. A wife.”

  The very last thing he needed or wanted in his very complicated life.

  “Mam, no.”

  “Maeve agrees with me.”

  Tom glared at his sister. “Judas.”

  “Think on what Mam says,” Maeve said, her gaze starry. “It’s such a wondrous thing, to have someone to confide in, someone you can’t stop thinking about. Someone with whom you can be your truest self. It’s a marvel.”

  His already frayed forbearance nearly snapped. This was not a conversation he wanted to have—not now, at any rate. Not when he was filled with thoughts of Lucia, remembering the lush silken feel of her body against his, the taste of her. How her touch calmed the tempest within him, yet her gaze set him aflame.

  He could never bring her to Northfield House—not through the front door. He couldn’t introduce her to Maeve or his mother. They’d never dine together or play spillikins or sit in quiet comfort near the fire, safely nestled within the walls of his ancestral home. Lucia could never be a part of his world.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said, turning away.

  “But, Tommy lad—” his mother protested.

  “Good night.” He kissed Maeve’s cheek and then his mother’s and hurried out of the parlor as fast as he could without breaking into a full run.

  He reached his chamber and disrobed before slipping on a dressing gown. After pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he sat beside the fire in his chamber, turning Maeve’s words over and over. It’s a marvel.

  But she was fortunate. Though it was better for her to make an advantageous match, she could select a husband of her choosing, letting her heart guide her decision. And her heart had made its choice.

  Tom could not afford to be so lucky.

  By noon on Sunday, he paced his study, gut churning in anxious anticipation of the following day—and taking a public stance against Brookhurst. God, if only he could get it over with, rather than this . . . inaction.

  More than anything, he needed Lucia. Her sagacity. Her bravery. She inspired him to be something better than he was. He believed in himself when he was with her.

  The hell with it.

  He ordered his carriage, and in short order was on his way to Bloomsbury. The journey took far too long.

  Elspeth answered the door when he knocked. She held a piece of toast and took a meditative bite as she regarded him on the front step, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

  “She’s in her room.” Elspeth stepped back to permit him entrance.

  “My thanks,” he managed to say before bounding up the stairs.

  Energy crackled through him as he took the steps with long strides. He felt certain he looked like a display in a lecture on the wonders of electricity, bright arcs tracing from his body in all directions.

  The door to Lucia’s room stood open. She sat on her bed cross-legged, her brow furrowed as she read a book.

  The agitation within him calmed, even as his heart thudded to see her again.

  He rapped gently on the door.

  She looked up. Her frown eased and transformed into a smile as she unfolded herself and rose to standing. “An unexpected pleasure.”

  “I don’t intend to disturb you.” He moved into the room, pulled by her nearness.

  “If you arrived banging pots and pans, followed by a parade of trumpets, you wouldn’t disturb me.” She tapped her fingers across his chest, and tiny flares of heat flashed over his skin. “Is there a reason for your visit?”

  One of her brows lifted and she glanced at the bed.

  Arousal surged, but he tamped it down. He captured her hand in his and kissed her fingertips, then startled a laugh from her when he gently bit one finger.

  “What I require is you fetching your coat and hat, and accompanying me on an outing.”

  “Dare I ask what this outing might be, or do you prefer a surprise?”

  “Sometimes surprises are welcome, but they can also wreak havoc.” He thought of the letter that had reached him in Cornwall, summoning him back to London, and his father’s deathbed. A spur of unexpected grief rose up. It could strike at any moment, without warning, speeding him back to the moment when the physician had announced that his father had breathed his last.

  Rather than shove his sorrow aside, as he might have done even a week ago, he now breathed through it, giving it space to simply be. Gradually, it receded—but it would always be a part of him, his father’s absence as much a fact of life as the sun overhead, casting shadows.

  “Are you well?” Lucia asked gently, her voice breaking into his thoughts.

  He inhaled, nodding. “You and I are going to a fair on the outskirts of the city.”

  She tilted her head, her brow furrowed in thought. “The last one I went to was Bartholomew Fair four years ago with Kitty. Still have this.” She walked to a cabinet and produced a souvenir silver spoon with an engraving on its handle.

  “That spoon shall be alone no longer,” he declared, “when we purchase it a companion today.”

  She set the spoon aside and regarded him with curiosity. “You’re a man of significance and consequence. Surely your responsibilities demand your company and leave little time for country outings.”

  “Madam,” he said gravely, “between you and them, there’s no choice to make.”

  A smile spread across her face, dispelling grief’s shadow. “They can go to the Devil?”

  “There’s a lass. Now get your coat.”

  Chapter 18

  The fair sprawled in a field to the west of London, a motley collection of booths, tents, and outdoor amusements that resembled a patchwork quilt of humanity. Noises of every variety tumbled over one another—drums and fiddles vied with barkers shouting for visitors bundled into heavy coats to visit their attractions—while the scents of roast meat and penned animals were thick in Lucia’s nostrils. It was chaotic and cacophonous and she adored it.

  “This is so much like the fiere in Napoli,” she said to Tom as they ambled from booth to booth, her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow. “I wish you could see it. So much life and color.”

  Bittersweet memories made her throat ache, and she blinked hard to push back tears. She ground the heel of her hand into her eyes as if she could hold her melancholy at bay.

  He gazed at her attentively, then frowned. “We can leave,” he said, concern edging his voice. “Find our entertainment elsewhere, or return home. Wherever you’re happiest.”

  The melancholy dissolved, like the fog from the Gulf burning away as day progressed.

  “Your concern is appreciated,” she said truthfully. How long had it been since someone other than Kitty or Elspeth had cared about her feelings? “But
the weather’s so fine and pleasant, and,” she added, cheeky, “the company is tolerable.”

  A corner of his mouth turned up, and his look was warm. “Couldn’t ask for a lovelier day or companion, even if she is an insolent wench.”

  The fair bustled around them, yet she lost herself in his eyes. Was it possible to feel one’s heart growing larger and larger? Was it not a machine that remained fixed in size? Yet hers seemed to swell, as though it could fill her body.

  “Ample warning,” he said as he led her toward a booth selling ribbons, “I’m determined to spend a disgusting amount of money on you today.”

  Giddiness flipped in her belly—for all that she prided herself on self-sufficiency, the idea of a gentleman showering her with pretty things was tantalizing.

  Still, she said on a laugh, “I’ve no need of trumperies and gewgaws.”

  “They are utterly useless,” he said with a nod, “and yet irresistible.” He smiled at the woman manning the booth. “We seek trinkets, madam.”

  The woman held up one arm draped with ribbons. “Finest satins for the lady. Or perhaps lace? These embroidered trimmings are exceptionally outstanding.” As she spoke, she displayed different lengths.

  Lucia could not resist, and stroked each ribbon lovingly. Such things were entirely frivolous, yet the colors and textures were utterly delightful.

  In Napoli, there had barely been enough to keep her clothed in rags, and she and Mamma would lie in bed at night talking of what sort of beautiful garments they’d wear, if only they had a bit of money. Mamma had died in her threadbare shift. Now, whenever Lucia slipped into a pretty gown, she did it for herself—and her mother.

  “I do love to adorn myself,” Lucia admitted.

  “A bit of beauty nourishes the soul,” he agreed. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the vendor.

  “Indeed, sir,” the woman said at once. “If the good Lord didn’t want us making ourselves handsome, why would He make so many lovely things? Like this aubergine silk. It would be so charming trimming the lady’s bonnet.”

  “We’ll take that, and anything else the lady wants. Make her eyes shine with joy, madam.”