The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (21 page)

The words of his father’s confessional letter echoed in Charlie’s mind. “My father considered the marriage dissolved, and possibly invalid from the beginning. Still, he resolved not to marry again, and nearly didn’t; only when he inherited his titles was it borne in on him that he might still be married to her in the eyes of the law, if not in his eyes or in hers. He made an effort to locate her, but failed.” He paused. Perhaps Dorothy had wished to forget the marriage as much as Durham did. If Scott’s story was true, by the time Charlie’s father became Durham, she had a new husband and a family to think of. If either of them could be accused of bigamy, surely it was Dorothy more than Durham. Oddly enough, Durham probably could have secured a divorce because of her remarriage, if he’d known of it, and spared them all this trouble. “What did she tell you of her time in London?”

As if rousing himself from a stupor, Scott shuddered. “She told us she had gone to the city when she was young,” he said in a numb voice. “For adventure. Mells is rather quiet and dull, certainly for so bright a creature as my mother. She wanted more . . . but she only found work as a seamstress, and came home two years later.”

“My father said she was an actress when he met her.”

The older man flinched but didn’t protest. “She said she met the fellow who became the Duke of Durham and remembered him fondly. I understood, between the winks and nods, that he’d courted her, or at least been very friendly. She teased my father that she might have been a duchess, if only she hadn’t come home to Somerset and married him. I don’t believe anyone thought she meant it, but . . . my mother was enchanting. My father claimed he was bewitched from the first moment he saw her. As a boy, I suppose I thought that if my mother had set her heart on charming a fellow, no man could resist her, be he a duke or a chimney sweep.” He ran one hand over his face and for a moment it looked as though he would put down his head and weep.

Charlie knew how he must feel. A few weeks ago he’d had the same grief for his own mother, fearing her memory would be tarnished, no longer the beloved and lamented Duchess of Durham, but the bigamous wife who never knew the infamy her husband had exposed her to.

“I would prefer not to speak of this ever again,” he said a touch more kindly, “as I’m sure you also prefer. But I must have proof of her death.”

Scott raised his gaze, hollow and bleak. “My lord—Your Grace—I did not know. I heard a few rumors of a challenge to the Durham title, but never dreamed my mother had any part in it. I did not even know you were the duke! And I swear to you, by all I hold sacred,
I did not write those letters
.”

For a long moment Charlie said nothing. No longer smooth and confident, Scott looked like a man who’d been taken off guard and attacked, horrified and angry and defensive all at once. “Mr. Scott, I have no interest in dragging your mother’s name through the mud. I have no interest in challenging the validity of her marriage to your father—quite the contrary. If I could prove she was never married to my father at all, I would. But should the court decide to uphold their marriage—conducted in a tavern near the Fleet, by the by, under the blessing of a dubious minister who never held a parish—should they declare that marriage binding, I must show Dorothy Swynne died before my father married again.”

“So you can inherit,” muttered Scott. “So you can be legitimate.”

Charlie inclined his head. “As you say. And I would very much appreciate your assistance.” He paused, then repeated, “
Very
much.”

The older man seemed to grasp his meaning; he took a deep breath and nodded. If he wished to, Charlie could cast serious doubt on Hiram Scott’s own heritage. Who knew how much that would matter away from the rarefied air of the haut ton, where lineage was everything, but it would cause a stir in this part of Somerset, and that was the last thing Scott needed as he tried to save his business and entice investors into the canal project. And that didn’t even touch on the emotional anguish it would cause his family to learn about their beloved mother’s secret, scandalous past.

He could also bring the canal scheme down around Scott’s ears. The books had been altered to show a rosy picture, but a few questions, a few indiscreet remarks, or even a call for an investigation in Parliament, would shred that picture. The canal would probably fail, eventually, but Charlie could make it happen overnight.

But if Scott cooperated . . . he would have earned the gratitude of a duke. And he knew it.

“Go to the church in Nunney,” said Scott softly. “The curate there will be able to show you; she was married there”—he winced at the word—“and is buried in the churchyard. Her name was Hester Dorothy Swynne before she married my father. I never heard anyone call her other than Hester, but I suppose she used her second name in London to keep her actions quiet.”

“Of course.” Charlie gathered up the letters. He already suspected he knew the answer to his last question, but had to ask it anyway. “You say you sent these letters as a favor for someone. Who?”

Hiram Scott swallowed. “One of our largest investors. I told him my mother’s story in a moment of boasting; there is no other word for it. I may have . . . implied a certain connection to the late duke. But he was very amused by the story, saying he had an old acquaintance with His Grace but hadn’t spoken to him in years. He asked me to send the letters when I would depart for Bath or Bristol, since the post is unreliable and infrequent in the wilds of Somerset. He invested quite generously in the canal and lent his support in Parliament, and I was delighted to do him that small favor . . .” His voice trailed off as he stared at the letters in revulsion, as if realizing he had unknowingly tied his own noose.

“And his name?” prodded Charlie, steeling himself. Every word had sent another prickle of dread down his spine.

Scott looked up, and gave the answer Charlie had feared. “The Earl of Worley, sir.”

Chapter 18

T
he village church of Nunney was small and ancient, with a crenulated gray tower rising above the neat gardens around it. Charlie opened the gate and led Tessa inside, up the path, and through the stout wooden doors. It was cool inside the church. Tessa had the feeling of stepping back in time as they walked up the nave, the stained-glass windows casting multicolored light across the weathered stone floor. Off to one side she glimpsed effigies in full armor lying in close quarters, right up to the windowsill as if they still guarded the church from invaders. It was hushed and peaceful and her chest hurt with how much she wanted Charlie to find the answers he sought here.

They reached the carved oak screen on the altar. No one came out to meet them. Charlie cleared his throat. “Good day,” he called, his voice echoing off the arched ceiling. “Is there anyone here?”

Silence was the only reply. Tessa glanced up at him. She could feel the tension in him through his grip on her hand. “We could go look in the graveyard ourselves,” she suggested.

He looked around the church once more. “Yes.”

They went back out into the churchyard, skirting around the building. The graveyard was neat and well-tended, with lines of graves winding along the edges of a narrow path. It wasn’t a large graveyard, and they were looking for a stone of some vintage, so it didn’t take very long.

“Here,” he said, stopping abruptly. Tessa looked down at the stone in front of them. Weathered and leaning to one side, it was at the head of a well-tended grave. Cowslip grew amidst the grass waving gently in the breeze.

HESTER DOROTHY, WIFE OF JEREMIAH SCOTT

AGED 40 YEARS

BURIED THIS 7TH DAY OF DECEMBER 1773

Here was the proof.

She felt the silent shudder that went through Charlie. His fingers eased around hers, just a little, but enough to make her realize she’d been holding her breath and could let it out.

“May I help you?” Tessa started and turned at the pleasant voice behind them. A middle-aged man in vicar’s garb stood on the path, smiling at them. “I am Edgar Thomas, the curate.”

She curtsied. “Thank you, sir. This is Lord Gresham, and I am Mrs. Neville.”

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Are you seeking a particular grave?”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “This one. Have you had this curacy for long, Mr. Thomas?”

“Oh, my, nearly twenty-five years,” he said with a smile. “The gentleman I replaced was here for over forty!” He glanced at the stone behind them. “Are you a relation of the Scott family?”

“We are acquainted with Mr. Hiram Scott of Mells,” Charlie said. “He directed us to you. Might we speak inside?”

“Yes, of course.” Mr. Thomas led the way to the nearby cottage, where he sent his serving girl for some refreshments. “Now, how can I help you?” he asked again when they were seated.

Charlie explained, in circumspect terms, what he needed, and gave Mr. Thomas the letter Hiram Scott had written, asking his help. When the tea arrived, Tessa poured it in silence and listened.

After Charlie found the marriage lines in the register, she had gone back to Frome feeling almost as though an idyll had ended. She knew he’d gone to see Scott the previous morning; he had called in Frome afterward and asked if she would come with him to Nunney to find Dorothy’s grave. But he had been somber and preoccupied, and told her about his visit to Scott without any of the emotion she’d expected to see.

And then he conspicuously avoided her questions about the true blackmailer, Lord Worley. Aside from a vague recollection of Mr. Scott mentioning him the night of the awful dinner, Tessa had never heard of the man, but when she wondered aloud why he would send threatening letters to the duke, Charlie changed the subject. She wasn’t much of a liar herself, but she certainly recognized that he didn’t want to tell her, for some reason. She let the question fade away, unanswered, but it planted a seed of worry in her heart that Charlie’s troubles weren’t ended by the discovery of Dorothy Cope.

“Well, my goodness, that is a delicate problem,” said Mr. Thomas when Charlie was done. “Of course I shall be glad to testify to the facts of when Mrs. Scott died, only I do hope it might be done without undue imposition on the family. Mr. Jeremiah Scott and his younger son are still parishioners here, and I hesitate to cause them pain or public censure. These events happened decades ago.”

“I assure you, I don’t wish public notoriety on any of them,” Charlie replied. “I don’t plan to mention the lady’s name except to establish that she died before my parents married, relieving any need to examine her clandestine marriage to my father, and thus sparing her family further distress. Hiram Scott agreed that his family would not wish to imperil my rightful claim to my title.”

“Very good, my lord.” The curate got to his feet. “I shall be glad to provide a letter, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes.”

After he left, Tessa looked uncertainly at Charlie. He was still distracted and tense, his hand resting on his knee in a fist. “Isn’t this all you need?” she finally ventured to ask. “Is there something else that would make your petition absolutely unquestionable?” He had let her read all the documents sent by his brother, including the legal petition filed in London with the Home Office. Tessa was no lawyer, but she couldn’t see anything except this clandestine marriage standing between Charlie and the dukedom.

He started at her voice, as if he’d been deep in reverie. “No, I don’t think there’s anything else I need produce for the lawyers.”

“Is something else wrong?” She almost feared the answer. Something clearly was wrong, and she had no idea what.

He didn’t answer for several minutes. “Nothing that isn’t my own fault.”

She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She lowered her gaze to her cup and turned it around and around on the saucer. Neither of them spoke again until Mr. Thomas came back into the room, bearing a letter.

“Here you are, sir.” He handed it to Charlie. “I shall be glad to seal it, after you’ve read it.”

“Thank you.” Charlie read it and handed it back. “You have been most helpful. I shan’t forget it.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Mr. Thomas bowed and hurried to seal the letter. “If there is anything else I might do, you have only to ask.”

“I will. Good day.”

They drove back to Frome in silence, Charlie still consumed with his own thoughts, and Tessa caught off guard by her own. There was no way to describe Charlie’s behavior in Nunney except haughty. He wasn’t her laughing, charming lover, but a regal duke with an air of lofty restraint. How silly she felt, after all the times she had reproved him for not being serious, for wishing now that he would revert to his usual irreverent self.

But perhaps that was her mistake. He wasn’t hers at all, and perhaps this was his usual self, not the other.

By the time they reached Mill Cottage, she could stand it no longer. “What happened with Mr. Scott?” she blurted out as he helped her down from the carriage. “Why would Lord Worley blackmail your father? I thought this would please you, but I can tell it hasn’t. What’s wrong, Charlie?”

Without a word he took her by the hand, striding off so rapidly she almost stumbled and fell before getting her balance. Away from the house he led her, around the stable and across the grassy lawn where they had shared lemonade only a few days ago. Tessa clapped one hand to her head to keep her bonnet from falling off as he towed her down the crumbling stone steps to the old mill.

“What is wrong?” she demanded again, breathlessly, as he finally stopped on the far side of the building, in the shadow of the slip where the wheel had once turned.

“Nothing at all,” he said, and kissed her, bearing her back against the wall. Her eyes fell shut as she succumbed at once to the spell of his kiss, ruthless and demanding. With one hand he held her nape, tipping her head just so as he plundered her mouth, and with the other he stroked her back, her waist, and finally her hip, drawing her firmly against his erection.

“Charlie,” she gasped when he broke off the kiss. Her heart galloped inside her chest and she clutched at his sleeve, her head spinning and her breath ragged.

“Shh.” He plucked her hand off his arm and stripped off her glove. “We’ll talk later.” He brought her hand to his groin, drawing her palm down his length. “Part your legs for me.”

“Here?” She gaped at him, startled out of the fog of desire he had conjured around her.

“Do it,” he said in the same wicked, velvet voice.

Tessa’s throat closed up. They were out of doors . . . although very sheltered from view. She moved her right foot over a few inches.

His eyes were pure black now. “More,” he growled. He brought her hand up and then down again, showing her how aroused he was.

Tessa jerked her chin higher. Now she was aroused, too, curse him. Defiantly she lifted her foot and raised her knee, curling her leg around his and flexing her foot to pull him closer.

“Yes,” he muttered, ducking his head for another scorching kiss.

She shook off his grip on her hand and began stroking him at her own pace. Her other arm she flung around his neck for balance. As he made love to her mouth, his tongue plunging deep then tangling with hers, he was hiking up her skirts between them. His fingers slipped over the slick folds between her legs, then pushed high inside her. Tessa moaned as a thousand sparks of lightning shot through her. His thumb circled lightly, then firmly, over that deliciously sensitive flesh. His fingers pushed deep and then withdrew, only to do it again. Tessa could hardly breathe; with one hand she yanked at the buttons of his trousers. Charlie did nothing to help her, just continued his maddening assault on her senses, pushing her toward delirium.

The last button came free as she felt her muscles tensing up in anticipation. Tessa was almost gasping for air as she slid her hand inside his trousers and finally took him in her bare hand. His chest tensed up as he sucked in a sharp breath, and then he seized her wrist, forcing her to guide him between her thighs before he pulled her hand away and thrust deep into her.

She must have made a startled noise; he paused for a heartbeat, his eyes sweeping over her face. She managed a nod. A shiver seemed to ripple through him, and he pressed closer, then surprised her by boosting her up off her feet. Tessa tightened her grip on his shoulders, hazily fearing they would fall, but that was the last thought she had. Charlie leaned her back against the wall, his hands curved under her hips, and rode her with a hard, driving rhythm. He didn’t stop even when she clutched at him and gave a little scream and almost bucked him off in the throes of climax. Only as she went limp in his arms did he clasp her tighter, leaning his weight on her as he shuddered in his own ecstasy.

“Darling.” His kiss was gentle, even though his arms trembled and his chest heaved with every breath.

Eyes still closed, Tessa reached for him, holding him close as she rested her cheek on his shoulder, her face pressed against the crumpled linen of his cravat.
Darling.
He was more than dear to her, more than just a lover. She had known Charlie was dangerous from the moment she first saw him, although she hadn’t guessed how thoroughly she would succumb to it. He had invaded her life, earned her respect, utterly enslaved her body, and now stolen her heart as well.

Immolation, indeed. She felt like a straw, liable to burst into flames every time he touched her.

He took a deep breath and gently let her down. It took a few moments to disentangle from each other; Tessa realized with a start that she had been wrapped around him, arms and legs, and her clothes had snagged on the buttons of his coat. Charlie grinned as he freed his buttons from the trim of her pelisse, and her heart jumped and bounded at the sight. She smiled back rather helplessly, letting him help her set her skirts to rights and then smoothing his cravat into some semblance of rectitude. Folding her arm snugly around his, Charlie led her back around the mill, toward the table and chairs. Tessa blushed at the sight of fresh lemonade and glasses, set out by a silent, invisible servant. What Barnes must think of them for running around the mill and then reappearing like this.

She sat down and poured two glasses, but Charlie remained on his feet. The lighter, peaceful look faded from his face as he drew out the letter from the Nunney curate and looked at it.

Tessa waited, but he said nothing. She sipped her lemonade. She shifted in her chair, trying to think what had made him somber again. “Do you still hold your father in contempt?” He glanced up, his eyes puzzled. “For the scandal,” she clarified. “For all the trouble you had to go through.”

He gave a deep sigh. “Contempt . . . No.” He hesitated, then put the letter back in his jacket pocket. “I have to make a short trip.”

“Oh.” Tessa blinked. Perhaps he meant to see his brother. “To Bath?”

“No.”

“To—To London?” she asked uncertainly. He did have to go to London, to present the curate’s letter and settle his title and put a final end to the uncertainty. But it wasn’t a short visit to London, and once he went, there was no reason for him to return to Frome.

“Not to London, either.” He wasn’t looking at her but staring toward the road, his eyes shadowed.

She wet her lips. “To see Lord Worley?”

His nod was barely perceptible.

“Oh.” She sipped her lemonade some more. He hadn’t touched his. Quietly she set her glass down and pushed it away. “What will you do?”

“I owe him an apology,” he said, an odd note in his voice. “And he owes me an explanation.”

He was not here with her, but somewhere else, far distant in his mind. Tessa felt a renewed tremor of apprehension. “Will it be . . . ?” She hesitated, not sure how to ask. Would it be dangerous? What did he plan to do to Lord Worley? Why did he say he owed the man an apology? And why must he go at all? Surely Charlie’s discovery of Dorothy’s grave had unstrung Worley’s poisonous bow. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to ask again why Worley would blackmail him about his father’s marriage.