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And thus, you are now the Duke of Lickwick. I shan’t be calling you Licky, do not worry.

I am planning a ball in your honor on the Epiphany, so I will expect you here by the end of the month to help handle preparations. The whole of London is buzzing about seeing you. Find your formal togs, dear boy, and wear a mourning armband for poor what’s-his-face.

I wonder if I can call myself a duchess now?

All my love,

Mummy

Georgia had to brace her palms against the table.

I can imagine you shaking your head right now, calling me silly.

Silly? Silly?

“Madam, there are many worse things he might call you,” she whispered, before snatching up the newspaper.

Yes, indeed, there was the small article about the duke—Lord Joseph Stalling—and his death abroad. The article explained how investigators had named the new heir, but wouldn’t announce it publicly until the man was notified. With the title being in name only, no estates or funds, it was really just a formality.

If she thought he’d be calling her silly over this news, she does not know her son very well.

The poor man was shaken to his core and Georgia could guess why.

Tossing the paper to the table, she gathered her skirts and hurried from the room.

Demon wasn’t in the library or his chambers, and she was about to visit the kitchens to see if anyone had seen him heading for the stables when she thought to try his study. The room was dark and cold, but enough moonlight filtered in through the windows to see a shape in front of the empty fireplace. His palms were braced against the mantel, head hanging down between his shoulders, and as she approached she could hear his heavy breathing.

“Demon,” she whispered as she put her palm flat against his back. “You—”

Before she could finish—before she could even decide what to say—he interrupted dully. “Ye read it?”

“I did.” Her fingers curled into a fist, bunching the fabric of his evening jacket. “Oh, Demon, I am so sorry.”

He straightened with a harsh bark of laughter. “Sorry? I’m a fooking duke! Shitenuggets!”

He was hiding his pain with anger again.

“Maybe she is wrong?” Georgia knew she was grasping at straws. “Forgive me for saying so, but she seems a little…”

His hands had curled into fists. “Flighty? Impulsive? Stupid?” With each word, he pounded his fists into the mantel.

Her heart breaking at his pain, Georgia lunged forward to grab his hands. “I was going to say, perhaps, unfocused.” When he tried to pull his hands from hers to turn away, she tightened her hold. “Demon. Could she be wrong?”

“Nay,” he rasped, his chin sunk nearly to his chest. “I never kenned her family, but I ken their names. Joseph Stalling was the name of my great-great-grandfather, and aye, he was the Duke of Lickwick. I never thought the title was still extant.”

“So the distant cousin who just died—”

“Aye, was named after the ancestor we shared. Rebarbative turd-donkey!” This time he succeeded in wrenching out of her hold, throwing himself against the mantel. “A fooking duke, Georgia! I dinnae even like going into Banchot!”

Yes, he was quite reclusive, wasn’t he? Georgia placed both hands on his back once more, willing him to feel her support, her love. “You will excel as a duke, Demon.”

He snorted without lifting his head. “I dinnae deserve to be a duke,” he mumbled.

Her fingers curled into fists again, rumpling the fabric of his coat, hating the doubt she heard in his voice. “You do. Demon Hayle, you are a stubborn, grumpy, and foul-mouthed man. But you are also a good man. You deserve all the best things in life.”

And I love you.

This was as close as she could come to admitting it. To him she might only be a bartered mistress, but she needed him to understand how worthy of good things he actually was.