Dare to Love a Duke Read online

  “Where are we going?”

  He motioned for her to come closer, and she did, but she didn’t climb into the vehicle. Tom had asked her to trust him, but that trust only extended so far.

  “Northfield has made substantial changes to the Orchid Club,” Blakemere said in a lowered voice. “He needs you there right away.”

  Anxiety tangled in her belly. “Is that safe for him?” Their association had cost him—and her—dearly.

  “He’s taking a chance, but it could pay off.” Blakemere’s gaze was surprisingly steely, as though he’d done and witnessed a great many things.

  She shook her head. A lifetime of caution could not be discarded in an instant like a soiled handkerchief. “Please, tell me what I’m to expect.”

  The earl shifted from resolute to charming as he offered her a crooked smile that no doubt enchanted many.

  Not her. Not today. She stared back at him with the same unbending expression she used to quell unruly guests.

  “I believe Northfield would like to surprise you,” Blakemere said at last. “But I do advise you strongly, no matter what you see there, it’s critical that you do not appear at all astonished. It’s all part of his plan. You’ll see.”

  Doubt gnawed at her. What the earl asked, what Tom asked, required considerable faith. Could she trust him? She’d brought him into her heart, her world, opening herself to him as she had to no other.

  She could not blame him. She had to own her responsibility in all this. With open eyes, she’d taken the chance to be with him. The fury she’d felt toward him was meant for herself.

  If she went with Lord Blakemere, she might make the same mistake of giving in to dangerous feelings. But if she didn’t…she would always wonder, What if?

  “Will you come with me now?” Blakemere asked.

  She hesitated. At the least, she could tell Tom that she’d been wrong in the placement of her blame. She couldn’t undo the damage of her anger, but she could offer him an apology. If he could not forgive her…she would live with the aftereffects of her rage, hoping that the injuries she’d caused him would one day heal.

  Lucia allowed the footman to help her into the carriage. The door closed behind her, the vehicle rocked from the footman climbing onto his perch, and then they were off.

  “Forgive me if I’m not much for conversation,” she said to the earl as they sped down Brushfield Street.

  “That’s perfectly agreeable. I can prattle enough for the both of us.”

  Lord Blakemere was true to his word, filling the silence with a steady stream of cheerful talk. He explained to her that he and his wife had just come from Cornwall, and were weary but exhilarated by a considerable amount of work that came with fixing up not just a manor house but an entire village. He didn’t seem to mind that Lucia only half listened. But his chatter did give her something to focus on rather than stewing in a morass of nerves as they neared Bloomsbury. Or rather, she attempted to focus on his talk. Inside, she trembled and quaked. She pressed a hand to her chest as if she could somehow gentle her thudding heart, but it went on fiercely pounding.

  “And now, here we are,” the earl said, at last.

  She crossed herself. Dio, dammi la forza. “God, give me strength.”

  The carriage stopped, and Lucia was helped down onto trembling legs. She frowned in confusion to see an array of expensive coaches lined up on the curb outside the Orchid Club’s former home. Even at the height of the establishment’s popularity, vehicles chose to use the stables located discreetly behind the house, rather than advertise their presence. Yet here they were in the bright light of day. The door to the house itself stood open.

  Her stomach clenched, but she didn’t wait for Lord Blakemere. Shouldering aside her anxiety, Lucia marched up the front walkway and stepped inside.

  Over a dozen aristocratic men stood in the foyer but none of them wore masks. They all turned to stare at her, their collective gazes sharp as stilettos. A tall, lean gentleman with a full head of snowy hair glared at her with so much fury and hatred, Lucia almost recoiled.

  “Here she is,” Tom said, coming forward through the crowd.

  Forgetting the white-haired man, her gaze devoured Tom. He looked appallingly handsome and quite ducal, if not a little thinner, his eyes ringed by dark circles. The urge to go to him and throw her arms around him—inhale his scent and then absorb the solidness of his body—was strong, but she forced it back.

  His gaze flashed when he beheld her. Yet he didn’t reach for her, despite the need in his eyes.

  “Miss Marini.” Tom bowed. He addressed the noblemen. “These gentlemen are here to observe your good work.”

  “I . . .” She tried to smile as Lord Blakemere had advised, but her bewilderment made it almost impossible. For her and Tom to be seen together, here, endangered him.

  Just then, a black-haired girl in a crisp smock and carrying a sheet of paper ran through the group. She didn’t seem to care that the men she hurried past represented half the wealth in England. But she stopped when she saw Lucia.

  It was Mary, her student from Bethnal Green. Her clothes were clean and free of holes, her boots shiny and new, and she proudly held up the paper.

  Lucia nearly wept to see the child looking so well—but her astonishment at seeing Mary here stopped her tears.

  “Miss! I’m to read a report on toadstools,” she announced grandly. Then, more shyly, she added, “Will you come listen?”

  Lucia’s mind could not catch up with what her eyes beheld. Distractedly, she murmured, “In a moment, Mary.”

  The girl nodded and sped off into the room that had been the parlor. Lucia refrained from casting a puzzled glance in Tom’s direction, but Heaven above, it was a challenge. Confusion made her dizzy. It was as if she’d been thrown into the sea but could suddenly breathe underwater.

  “Let’s move on, gentlemen and lady.” Smiling, Tom motioned that they should follow Mary.

  Move on to what?

  Lucia walked down the corridor she’d patrolled countless times, but never with an unmasked audience comprised of noblemen. That’s clearly what they were—from their stiff bearing to the cut of their clothes, everything about them proclaimed their wealth and privilege.

  She reached the parlor and barely contained her shock. The room had been completely transformed. At one end, a slate hung from the wall, and was covered in chalk writing and diagrams. Before the slate stood a woman in spectacles, who was reading aloud from a book.

  Arranged in front of the slate were twelve desks, and at each desk sat a girl with her own book. They looked up at the bespectacled woman, their expressions attentive. Lucia recognized half of the girls from her tutoring but the others were new to her. In a corner, an orange tabby cat dozed on a patched cushion.

  It was a school. Here. In what had once been the Orchid Club.

  Heart hammering, she turned at Tom and the other men’s approach, yet she schooled her features to make it seem as though seeing a sex club transformed into a home for girls was an everyday occurrence.

  “Miss Marini has provided the girls here with everything they will need,” Tom said to the noblemen. “There are more classrooms, a refectory, dormitory rooms, and an abundance of supplies, some of which I have financed, and others that receive funding from private donations.”

  “And what do these students learn?” one of the men asked.

  Tom looked expectantly at Lucia.

  Madonna! “Mathematics,” she stammered. “Grammar, literature, the sciences.”

  “What of sewing, cooking?” an older gentleman prodded. “Anything useful?”

  A steadying bolt of anger anchored her. She straightened. “The subjects they study are useful. The enrichment of their minds is valuable enough, but their fluency in these subjects will, at the least, ensure they can be employed as teachers and governesses.”

  “Which is highly respectable employment,” said a young woman with reddish-brown hair and dressed in black, coming
forward. She looked to be in her late teens, and the vivid blue of her eyes matched the hue of Tom’s. Beneath her arm, she carried several hornbooks. Her smile was warm as she nodded at Lucia—but Lucia was certain she’d never met the girl.

  “Ah, my sister, Lady Maeve.” Tom wrapped an arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “She assists several days a week.”

  Of course. The girl had Tom’s striking looks, her gaze sharply intelligent.

  “Are you not in mourning, Lady Maeve?” the angry-looking man demanded.

  “There’s always an exception for good works, Your Grace,” the girl said with barely hidden fury.

  This was the man who’d ruined Lucia, and trampled Tom’s reputation. The man who’d taken everything from her.

  It was all she could do to keep from springing forward and ramming her fist into his stomach.

  An older woman, her dark hair threaded with silver, her bearing regal, came forward. When she spoke, her works were musically inflected with an Irish accent. “As her mother, the decision as to whether or not her activities are suitable is entirely mine.”

  The men bowed, and Lucia, setting aside her anger, quickly bobbed a curtsy.

  “I believe many of you know the Duchess of Northfield,” Tom said to the group.

  Cristo in cielo, this woman was his mother.

  The duchess nodded at the men, and when she looked at Lucia, her gaze wasn’t entirely friendly.

  “Your assistance here is greatly appreciated, Your Grace,” Lucia said.

  “I am here for my son,” she said primly. “And for the girls.”

  “Certo.” Lucia swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d seen all walks of life in her establishment, and knew that beneath everyone’s clothing, they were merely human. Long ago, she’d gotten beyond feeling intimidated by someone from a higher social class—but the Duchess of Northfield made Lucia feel no bigger than a spool of thread.

  “Hugh!” the Duke of Brookhurst’s eyes went round and color drained from his face. “What the blazes?”

  Several of the men nearby coughed at the Duke of Brookhurst’s language.

  Lucia followed the Duke of Brookhurst’s gaze. An exceptionally handsome young man, likely no older than his early twenties, appeared. He had sandy hair and hazel eyes, and the pristine cut of his expensive clothing revealed his rank.

  Lady Maeve stared at him, adoration shining in her face. “Hugh.”

  There was so much love in that look, so much joy, it was like being in the presence of something holy. Lucia almost shielded her eyes.

  “I’ve brought more ink,” the young man said. “Cleaned out the stationer’s shop.” He held up a box that contained numerous bottles. “Brought some quills, too.” When he looked at Lady Maeve, his expression brimmed with devotion.

  “Lord Stacey.” Tom tipped his head in greeting.

  “How good of you to assist us,” Lucia said with a grateful smile.

  Hugh—Lord Stacey—gave her a bright grin. “A good cause, of course, and when His Grace, the Duke of Northfield, told me of the place, well, naturally I offered my services.”

  A choked sound came from the Duke of Brookhurst, his gaze fastened on his son. The pallor had left his face, replaced by a hectic flush.

  “As you can see, gentlemen,” Tom said to the assembled crowd, “I am not, in fact, the owner of an illicit club. I am the patron of this home, and Miss Marini is the headmistress. Your Grace,” he said, turning to the sputtering duke, “I do believe that your accusations were inaccurate.”

  “Quite inaccurate,” Lucia said coolly.

  A dark-haired man with a striking and stern countenance moved to the front of the group. “You’ve made serious allegations against a fellow peer. Allegations that have been proven false.”

  Mutters rose up from the crowd.

  “. . . Brookhurst went too far . . .”

  “. . . lies . . . slander . . . against a duke’s charity . . . his own political gain . . .”

  The Duke of Brookhurst glanced toward a trio of older men, clearly seeking their support. But their faces were stony with condemnation.

  “Leave now,” Tom said, his voice brutally flat. “Or else you and I shall meet each other at dawn.”

  “He’s a very good shot,” Lord Blakemere added sunnily from the back of the crowd.

  Tom stared at the Duke of Brookhurst with the patience of an executioner. He took a step toward the duke. Brookhurst recoiled. Tom kept moving forward, and the duke scurried backward.

  “Hugh,” he said, his voice a rasp, “come with me at once.”

  A pause followed. Tom’s sister looked back and forth between her beau and the young man’s father, her eyes round with apprehension.

  “I’m staying with Lady Maeve,” Lord Stacey answered flatly.

  If Lucia didn’t hate the Duke of Brookhurst, she might have summoned pity for him as he registered his son’s betrayal. His face crumpled.

  The crowd parted and with a guttural sound, the duke scuttled away and sped through the door. The moment he was gone, Lady Maeve rushed to Lord Stacey, and they embraced tightly.

  One of the older men approached Tom, his hand extended. “Apologies, Your Grace. I believed Brookhurst’s slander, which discredits me.” He turned to Lucia and gave a small bow. “I pray you accept my sincerest regret.”

  “Scuse accettate.” She made herself nod with the air of a tolerant goddess. “‘Apology accepted.’”

  Before Tom, no nobleman had ever offered her a gesture of respect, but the crowd of aristocrats followed the man’s lead and also bowed.

  Surely I’m dreaming.

  “I hope this clears up any and all misunderstandings,” Tom answered.

  “Without doubt,” the other man said readily. “And I shall personally ensure that word disseminates, exonerating you and Miss Marini of any illicit behavior.”

  “Much appreciated,” Lucia said with as much regal hauteur she could muster.

  “Now that’s settled . . .”

  Tom drew in a shaky breath as he faced her. Deliberately, his gaze on hers, he lowered himself down, until he knelt on one knee.

  Lucia had never once fainted in her life. Not after enduring punishing hunger or intense physical pain. Yet now she grew light-headed.

  “Miss Marini,” Tom said, his voice thick as he took her hand. “Lucia,” he added in a low, urgent whisper for her alone. “I love you. Will you be my wife?”

  She could not have heard right. It was impossible. And yet he looked at her with such heated reverence—there could be no doubt.

  Lady Maeve gasped, and there were mutters of both pleasure and outrage from the onlookers.

  “. . . a commoner . . .” “. . . foreign extraction . . .”

  Before Lucia could even begin to consider how she might answer, the duchess cleared her throat.

  “Miss Marini,” she said in a frosty tone. “A word. Alone.”

  Tom tensed beneath Lucia’s hand, and she felt her own body go taut in readiness. Mamma used to glare at any lad who looked too long in Lucia’s direction. Surely the mother of a supremely eligible, highly sought bachelor might growl in warning at a woman who might be predatory.

  After all that had transpired today, the hazards Lucia had faced, a quiet chat with Tom’s mother shouldn’t frighten her. Shouldn’t, but did.

  “Of course,” Lucia said with far more serenity than she felt. She gave Tom a fabricated reassuring smile. “There’s a small chamber just down the hall.”

  Her head high despite her anxiety, Lucia walked toward the room that had once held intoxicated guests. Now a trio of girls sat on a sofa and read a book aloud.

  “Scusate, care,” Lucia said to the girls. “May we have some privacy?”

  The children stared at the duchess with awe as they got to their feet and filed out.

  Despite the sofa, Lucia remained standing. In case she needed to run.

  “I learned only this morning that he loved you.” The duchess fac
ed her, and in the beautifully sculpted lines of her face, Lucia saw echoes of Tom. “He doesn’t favor me with a single word about his feelings for you, a woman of common birth, and today he tells me he intends to offer matrimony.”

  “It was equally surprising to me, Your Grace.” Lucia could not yield or show any fear, but taking a defensive stance would set a tone that would resonate for years to come.

  “I tried to talk him out of it,” the duchess said bluntly.

  “Understandable,” Lucia answered.

  “But he would not be dissuaded,” the older woman went on. “He insisted that he would ask you, and await your answer.”

  “That’s . . .” Astonishing. Wonderful. Impossible.

  “What is your answer?” The duchess lifted her eyebrow.

  “I don’t know,” Lucia said honestly. She looked straight into the duchess’s eyes. “I have learned a great many difficult lessons over the course of my life, Your Grace. Above all, I learned to protect myself, to be cautious. Especially,” she said, “where my heart was concerned.”

  The duchess regarded her thoughtfully.

  “When it comes to Tom,” Lucia continued, spreading her hands, “I have no caution. His burdens and sorrows are mine. His happiness is my happiness. His heart,” she said, her throat growing tight, “is my heart.” She dipped her head as understanding filled her. “I know you think me a scheming opportunist, Your Grace. If there was a way for me to have Tom but never become a duchess, I’d take that option without hesitation. I want the man, not the title.”

  For several moments, the duchess gazed at her.

  Then, she opened her arms.

  Lucia stared at the older woman. She took one step, and then another, and then she was clasped in the duchess’s embrace.

  So long. It had been so long since a mother had held her. The duchess smelled of roses and tea, and Lucia drew the scent deep into her lungs. Only through sheer determination did she remain standing. Yet she clung to the duchess, squeezing her eyes shut to keep the tears from falling.

  “There, lass,” the older woman murmured. “Forgive an old bear for guarding her cub.” She stroked a gentle hand down Lucia’s hair. “All mothers dream that someday, someone will love their child as much as they do.”