Dare to Love a Duke

She waved toward the dance floor, which had evolved into a mass of sweat-slick flesh. Moans and grunts competed with the music.

Damn the distance she put between herself and the guests. If nothing else, he’d give her several hours of pleasure. Touching her deeper, realer self—that was an impossibility. Letting someone get truly close led straight to disaster and misery.

The buccaneer’s gaze never left her. “The most fascinating and intriguing thing here is you.”

She made herself laugh. “Sirrah, you are fulsome in your blandishments.”

He didn’t laugh or smile, his expression utterly serious. “When I set foot outside these doors,” he said, “I don’t need to flatter anyone. What I want, I get. So believe me when I say honestly that I’d much rather talk with you than fuck a stranger.”

Her heart thudded. “Because, unlike everyone else, I tell you no.”

“Because you intrigue me beyond measure.”

She could only stare at him. The part of herself that she’d locked away, the part that longed for comfort and affection and all the things lovers shared, ached with want. Oh, she’d taken men to her bed over the years, but other than physical gratification, she’d made certain those encounters never touched her heart. She had been forged through hardship and loss, treading a solitary path. If sometimes her body throbbed for want of someone to hold her all through the night, if she ached for someone to whisper into her hair that she was to be cherished . . . she tamped it all down.

Think of Mamma. Her pain and loss.

Yet here was this man, this guest, a person unknown to her. Her buccaneer. Offering a taste of what could never be.

“I must go,” she said. “My duties can’t be neglected.”

His mouth turned down, but he nodded. “I will be back soon. To see you, Amina.”

It wasn’t her real name, yet the sound of it on his lips sent a dark thrill through her. Oh, to hear him call her Lucia as he joined his body with hers . . .

He gave another bow before turning and striding away. She watched him, her gaze riveted to the width of his shoulders and how beautifully his breeches fit his long, muscular legs. Compelled to follow, she trailed several paces after him, observing him as he walked. He didn’t join any of the couplings but went straight for the door.

Lucia did not follow him any farther. The threshold was where her dominion ended.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and adjusted her mask.

The club’s policy was to be open every week. Perhaps the buccaneer would return then. Perhaps she might see him once more, and they could talk, as they had tonight.

Her breath came faster.

In all her time here, he was the only guest who ever truly caught her attention, the only guest she’d wanted for her own selfish pleasure.

Doesn’t matter. Flirtation is all we can ever share. The establishment—and the profits it generated—was too important to her to throw anything away on a casual encounter.

Drawing herself up straight, she continued on with the rest of her night. There were responsibilities that needed tending—keeping the refreshments circulating, ensuring the staff’s well-being and the guests’ safety, maintaining the club’s spotlessness—a hundred tiny tasks she had to supervise. Yet, like a child sneaking tastes of her parents’ wine, she permitted herself brief thoughts of the buccaneer.

It would be a struggle not to grow drunk on him.

Chapter 3

One year later

Tom waited at the foot of the back stairs, his body both heavy with grief and impelled into motion.

For six weeks, he’d kept vigil at his father’s bedside, barely sleeping, eating only when forcibly urged to by the physician, and hardly stirring from the ducal bedchamber. But for all that, for all the physician had bled Father and applied every technique that modern medical science had devised . . . the old duke had died anyway.

Tom could still hear the rattle and rasp of his father’s breath stopping. It was that dreadful silence that heralded the end. The man that had both berated and coddled Tom had departed the earth, leaving behind a chasm that might never be filled. That chasm yawned open within Tom. Its emptiness threatened to devour him whole.

Feeling his shoulders bow beneath the weight of grief, he struggled to straighten them. Today was for Maeve, and he had to have strength for both of them.

Only that morning, news of his father’s death had been printed in the pages of the Times and Hawk’s Eye, revealing to the world the loss of one of England’s most staunch defenders of traditional values. They had said nothing about how the late duke preferred roast potatoes every Tuesday, or that, despite the fact that he continually bemoaned his son’s carousing and wildness, he used to give Tom books of adventure stories on his birthdays, even into adulthood. On Tom’s bookshelf in his private study, he had a copy of Guy Mannering, with a typically terse “To My Son on His 32nd Birthday—Yr Father” inscribed on the inside cover.

None of that had been in the papers. There were aspects of the Duke of Northfield that no one but those closest to him would ever know.

But in the Times, there had been a paragraph that, hours later, Tom could recite from memory. It had burned itself into his mind, and into his heart.

We cannot help but speculate whether or not the new duke will take up his late father’s ideology and principles. His Grace, the previous duke, has left a sizable void in the nation’s political landscape. Further, it is a known truth that the younger gentleman in question has led a somewhat undisciplined existence. Many await his next steps with bated breath. Shall he continue in his riotousness, or will he take up the mantle left behind by his father, and preserve England’s established institutions?

We cannot foretell.

God above, but if that wasn’t a burden to carry. The eyes of the country were on him. And all he wanted to do was run.

But now that he was duke, he could use his might in the advancement of progressive causes, as he’d longed to do when he was only the heir. Others might expect him to be a duplicate of his father, but he didn’t have to be. He could be his own man with his own beliefs, his own goals.

A step quietly creaked. He glanced up, and saw Maeve, dressed in mourning black bombazine with a jet broach at her throat, a veil covering her face and a black handkerchief twisted in her fingers.

His heart plunged to see his sister, a girl of just nineteen, so somberly garbed. She ought to be dressed in bright, springtime green or the yellow of daffodils, with a coral necklace about her neck and her pretty face rosy from the heat of a ballroom.

He smoothed a hand over the dark band encircling his arm and ran his finger along the length of his black neckcloth. Unlike Maeve, his mourning was limited to smaller signifiers—in every way.

Ballrooms were forbidden to her, as were color and joy. As if she, or Tom, could ever feel joy again in the wake of their father’s death.

Maeve’s steps were slow as she descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she paused, holding the newel post. Her veil stirred as she let out a long exhale.

“Are you certain about this?” Tom asked. “You don’t need to tax yourself.”

“I need to go,” his sister said. Her words were steadier than her gait. “I need to see him.”

“As you like.” But Tom wrapped a sheltering arm around her shoulders as he guided her toward the back door.

Tenderness and protectiveness rose up within him when she leaned against him. He was rocketed back to when he’d been a lad of thirteen, cradling his newborn sister in his arms, frozen with terror that he might drop the delicate thing and have her shatter into tiny fragments at his gangly feet.

His mother hadn’t been able to keep any other baby she’d conceived. All his siblings had either died in utero or within a day of their births. No one had been certain whether or not Maeve would join her departed siblings in the churchyard. Yet she’d made it through the first week, and when Tom had finally been allowed to see and hold her, he’d vowed then—just as he vowed now—that he would safeguard her for the rest of his days.

They reached the door that opened to a narrow, walled yard, and Tom pushed it open to escort Maeve out. Thick gray clouds smeared across the sky, and a cutting wind blew into the yard.

Maeve tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. “I missed this.”

“The dreadful weather?”

“Being outside. I haven’t set foot outside the house in three weeks and five days.”

He’d had to report back to her about the funeral and burial, as she and their mother had been obliged by the rules of polite society that such a sorrowful ordeal would tax their fragile emotions overmuch.

A corner of Tom’s mouth lifted in a humorless smile. He had been the one who could barely stand beside the open grave as the casket had been lowered. He had swallowed countless tears, trying to manfully force them back rather than permit himself the luxury of open grief. His throat still burned with gulping back sobs. Maeve and their mother, Deirdre, were free to show their sorrow—so long as they did so within the confines of Northfield House. Open displays of anyone’s emotions, be they male or female, were distressing and gauche.

No one seemed permitted to indicate that they had feelings, especially not messy, complicated feelings that threatened to rip one apart from the inside out.

But he had to be strong. For Maeve, for their mother.

“How does it feel to be in the open air again?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment. “Cold.”

“We can go back.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mind. It proves that I’m still alive.”

The unspoken words but he isn’t hung in the air.

“And,” she added, “Hugh’s expecting me.” Though her veil obscured her face, there was a hint of brightness in her voice as she said Lord Stacey’s name.

“The carriage is waiting for us.” Tom helped her out of the yard and down the gravel path that led to the stables. “I told John the coachman to draw the curtains so that no one could see you.”

“My thanks.”

Tom bit back a warning about the possible damage to her reputation if she was seen outside of her home so soon after her father’s passing. It was her decision to make, and he trusted her judgment.

It was a cruel thing to permit men the release and freedom of leaving their homes in the wake of a family member’s death, while women were trapped within the walls, barely permitted a visitor other than a consoling clergyman. How could anyone survive the crush of grief if they could not take in a little air or be given even a moment’s reprieve from their sorrow?

So Tom had agreed when Maeve had proposed this sortie. He would give his sister anything, if she asked.

“This way,” he said, guiding her along the path.

“I can’t see a thing behind this blasted veil,” Maeve grumbled. “It’s like my eyes are full of smoke.”

“I’ll be your eyes.”

“Again, my big brother champions me,” she said warmly.

“As a big brother, I am contractually obligated to champion you.”

They had reached the stable yard, where the carriage and driver awaited them, while a groom held the horses. In a show of respect, the coachman wore a black caped coat, the footman standing beside the vehicle was attired in inky livery, while horses had been draped with black fabric.

Tom and Maeve approached the carriage.

“Your Grace,” the coachman said, bowing. “Lady Maeve.”

Tom suppressed a grimace. Wrong, he wanted to shout. My father is His Grace, not me.

His whole life, he had known that one day he’d assume the title. But that had been a purely intellectual exercise and easy to dismiss. Yet to finally be the Duke of Northfield felt like trying to breathe underwater.

I’m not ready, damn it. Not for any of this.

“You know where we are headed?” Tom asked the driver as the footman helped Maeve into the carriage.

“Broom House Farm, Your Grace. In Fulham.”

“And?” Tom prompted.

“And Her Grace isn’t to know of it,” John recited.

“No one is to know of this excursion. Make sure your grooms keep their silence. You’ll all see yourselves handsomely rewarded for your discretion and punished for any indiscretion.”

It was a fact of life that servants and staff gossiped, and if word ever got out that Tom helped Maeve break her mourning to see Lord Stacey, she would be the one suffering the harm to her reputation. Lord Stacey and Tom might receive sidelong glances of disapproval, but they’d still be admitted into drawing rooms and dining chambers throughout London.

A carriage kitted out in mourning might attract moderate interest, but Tom could move about the world freely without consequence. If someone recognized the vehicle, it would be a simple enough matter to explain that Tom was attending to his newfound responsibilities—alone.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Grand.” For good measure, Tom slipped a guinea into John’s hand before he climbed into the carriage.

Once the door had been closed, and the curtains in the windows secured, Tom rapped on the roof to signal they were ready to depart. The vehicle jolted slightly as it surged into motion, but it was excellently sprung, and as they drove down the mews and onto the street, he hardly felt the movement. The sound of the wheels was dampened by the straw that had been laid out along the street during the late duke’s illness. Soon, though, they had driven past Northfield House, and the rumble of the wheels and the clop of the horses’ hooves formed the background noise of their journey.

Fulham was some four miles away from Mayfair, a journey that took them through Belgravia and Chelsea. At a decent pace, he and Maeve would reach their destination in three quarters of an hour.

“Don’t peep through the curtains,” Tom warned Maeve as she attempted to do exactly that.

She flopped back against the seat, making a sound of frustration. “I wish I could look outside and see the world again.”

“It will still be there when you’re out of mourning.”

“Months from now.” She sighed regretfully, then clicked her tongue. “You think me a callous chit for thinking of my own comfort and amusement at such a time.”

“I think,” he said, his voice gentle, “that you can mourn whilst also longing to live your life. It’s a hard burden to be locked away from all company, and doubly so if one is a girl barely into her second season.”

“A young woman, not a girl.”

“My apologies.” He pressed a hand to his chest and gave a slight bow. “And if you are a young woman with an ardent suitor, six months of deep mourning might seem like an eon.”

“So it does.” Maeve leaned forward, reaching out and taking Tom’s hand in hers. “Hugh and I haven’t seen each other since Father took ill. Your kindness in facilitating this is remarkable.”

His brows lifted. “Shall I be a cad, and stand in the way of my sister’s happiness?”

“Don’t be flippant, Tommy. This is a risk for both of us.”

“A moderate one for me, but an extraordinary one for you.”

“One I have to take.” Urgency and youthful conviction throbbed in her words. “Hugh is everything to me.”

What would that be like, to believe in something so strongly? To have faith and purpose?

In the whole of his thirty-two years, Tom had never experienced that. It shamed him to feel a pulse of envy for the girl—young woman—that had once gazed upon him with pure idolization.

He shouldn’t, couldn’t, begrudge Maeve her happiness. But out of all the experiences he’d had in his life, never had he known what it was to care deeply for anything or anyone not related to him. Somehow, the little sister who had tried to run after him on her stubby toddler legs had grown into a woman who loved, and was loved in return.

Her brother could not say the same.

“You are certain that Lord Stacey will be waiting for us in Fulham?” Tom asked.

She nodded. “His last letter spoke of nothing else.” She patted her heart, and Tom could only guess that was where she carried Lord Stacey’s missive. “He’s made all the arrangements that we might see each other, if only briefly.”

Foolish, romantic girl. How he coveted that for himself.

“We’ll be unable to stay long,” he cautioned.

“Any time with him is a gift.”

He snorted. “Now you sound like one of Shelley’s poems.”

She made a soft scoffing noise. “As though I would attempt to emulate that histrionic, overwrought scribbler. Everyone knows that Keats is far superior.”

Tom didn’t hide his grin. It was never difficult to solicit an opinion from his sister, a fact which bedeviled their mother but delighted him.

“I’m partial to Byron, myself,” he said. “Except for that bit about sleeping with his sister.”

“Half sister. But still, that does tend to color one’s enthusiasm for his work.”

The constriction around his chest eased. For all that she was thirteen years his junior, he never felt the divide of their years. They could always talk and jest freely, and while he never detailed his dissolute exploits to her, she was one of the few people that accepted him as he was.

I’d kill for her.

The words formed in his mind as firmly as if he’d spoken them aloud. It was an oath he swore to himself.

“Talk to me of anything but the past six weeks,” Maeve pled. “What was the last play you saw?”

“An excellent work by the most esteemed Viscountess Marwood. It involved a kidnapping and three assumed identities.” Riveted by what he saw on the stage, Tom had barely stirred in his seat, not even to flirt with a few daring widows.

Maeve clapped her hands together. “Ah, splendid! And was there a swordfight?”

“Between the heroine and the villain.”

She chuckled. “Even better.”

For the remainder of the journey to Fulham, they spoke of subjects unrelated to death and loss—a relief. They carved out a space for themselves in the midst of grief, where Tom could set aside the fact that now, he was the duke, shouldering the title’s massive responsibilities, and he and Maeve were merely themselves as they had been. The scapegrace elder brother and the sardonic but adoring younger sister.

The carriage slowed to a stop, far faster than Tom had anticipated.

“We’re here, Your Grace,” the coachman called down.

In short order, Tom stepped out from the vehicle and helped his sister down. They had stopped in the front yard of a tidy farmhouse that was surrounded by trees. At another time of year, the garden might be abundant, but within the chill months of late autumn, all that clustered around the house were bare hedges. Beyond the farmhouse was a little barn and an enclosed pasture. Smoke rose in a column from the house’s chimney. Someone was inside.

“My assignation spot?” Maeve asked, looking around.

Tom grimaced. “Assignation has carnal associations that I’d rather not consider in relation to my baby sister. Let’s call it an appointment, instead.”

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

He shook his head. To the best of his knowledge, Maeve and Lord Stacey had never been fully alone together. They weren’t officially affianced, and even if they had been, it was the unfortunate custom of the ton to prohibit intimacy between gentlemen and young women of good breeding.

A stolen kiss was the best any of them could do. No wonder Tom had so little interest in polite society. He’d moved past mere kissing nearly two decades ago.

The door to the farmhouse opened, revealing a man’s silhouette. Tom barely had time to consider the identity of the man before Maeve cried out, flinging back her veil as she ran toward the house.

Tom followed at a deliberately sedate pace. He feigned interest in the autumnal garden as Maeve and Lord Stacey embraced.

“Oh, Hugh,” Maeve said, “I am so glad to see you.”

“There, my darling,” Lord Stacey answered in a soothing voice. “We’re together now.” In a slightly louder voice, he said, “Your Grace.”

Tom stopped his sham of investigating a pruned rosebush. “Lord Stacey.” He bowed slightly to the younger man.

Hugh Gillray, Lord Stacey, was considered by people of estimable opinion to be one of the best catches in London. He was handsome, in an amiable and approachable manner, with waves of sandy hair, bright hazel eyes, and the athletic form of a true Corinthian. Even more significant, he was the heir to the powerful and influential Duke of Brookhurst, possessing the allowance to match.

But clearly none of that mattered to Maeve, who had her head on Lord Stacey’s shoulder.

Maeve and Lord Stacey had met at a regatta in May and had been nigh inseparable ever since. It was merely Lord Stacey’s relative youth—only twenty years old—that prevented him from asking for Maeve’s hand. The Duke of Brookhurst had made it clear that only when his heir had reached the mature age of twenty-one could he propose.

But Lord Stacey’s birthday was in a month, within Maeve’s period of full mourning. Fielding an offer of marriage during mourning was uncouth. And so Maeve and her beloved would have to wait to even begin their official courtship.

A fact which was made clear by the way she and Lord Stacey had plastered themselves together today. They stood side by side, hands clasped, as though unable to permit even the smallest distance between themselves.

“Thank you so much, Your Grace, for permitting this,” Lord Stacey said with all the fervency of youth. “The owners of this farm have been generously compensated for providing the venue as well as their discretion.”

Tom made himself look as formidable as possible. “Don’t betray my trust by taking undue advantage.”

“Tommy!” Maeve exclaimed, sounding mortified.

Yet her embarrassment meant less to him than safeguarding her reputation. Perhaps it was hypocrisy to protect her virtue when Tom himself enjoyed the standing as one of the ton’s profligates, but that was the double standard that guided most of Society. He might not support that double standard, but he wouldn’t gamble his only sister’s happiness on his own opinion.

“I won’t, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey’s gaze was earnest.

In all of Tom’s dissipated carousing, not once had he crossed paths with the lad, leading him to believe that Lord Stacey truly was an upstanding—possibly virginal—young man.

“How fares your father?” Tom asked.

“He’s quite fixated on passing an upcoming bill,” Lord Stacey said. “Something to do with increasing the punishment of transients.” The lad’s eyes grew somber. “The passing of the late duke came as a blow to him.”

“That, I don’t doubt.” In addition to sharing a friendship of over three decades, the Duke of Brookhurst and Tom’s father had been longtime confederates in the political scene. Together, they had formed one of the most dominant conservative syndicates in Parliament.

When Maeve and Lord Stacey had shown a marked preference for each other, Tom had witnessed the Duke of Brookhurst and the late duke at White’s, toasting the continuation of their alliance and the marriage of the two bastions of England’s utmost traditional, upstanding families. It would be a union that pleased everyone.

“He, ah, mentioned something this morning,” Lord Stacey said, his face reddening. “About you. About . . . needing your support in Parliament. He’s relying on it. For, ahem, our sake.” He glanced down at Maeve, before looking back at Tom. “Might I…speak with you in private for a moment, Your Grace?”

Tom frowned. “As you wish.”

Maeve made a sound of exasperation but didn’t stop Tom or Lord Stacey when they moved a small distance from her.