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He would not give her up. He could not. For the first time in his life he’d found someone who filled all the empty spaces in his heart.

He did not know who he would be, once they went to Ireland and found whatever it was they all thought they were looking for. But whoever he was—duke, highwayman, soldier, rogue—he wanted her by his side.

He loved her.

He loved her.

There were a million reasons he did not deserve her, but he loved her. And he was a selfish bastard, but he was going to marry her. He’d find a way. No matter who he was or what he owned.

Maybe he was engaged to Amelia. He probably wasn’t smart enough to understand the legalities of it all—certainly not without the contract in hand and someone to translate the legalspeak for him.

He would marry Grace. He would.

But first he had to go to Ireland.

He couldn’t marry Grace until he knew what he was, but more than that—he could not marry her until he’d atoned for his sins.

And that could only be done in Ireland.

Chapter Seventeen

Five days later, at sea

This was not the first time Jack had crossed the Irish Sea. It was not even the second or the third. He wondered if the unease would ever leave him, if he would someday be able to look down at the dark, swirling waters below and not think of his father slipping beneath the surface, meeting his death.

Even before he had met the Cavendishes, when his father was just a wispy figment in his mind, he’d disliked this crossing.

And yet here he stood. At the railing. He could not seem to help himself. He could not be on the water and not look out. Out, and then down.

It was a gentle voyage this time, although that did little to comfort him. It was not that he feared for his own safety. It was just that it all felt so morbid, skimming atop his father’s grave. He wanted it done. He wanted to be back on land. Even, he supposed, if that land was Ireland.

The last time he’d been home…

Jack pinched his lips together, and then he pinched his eyes shut. The last time he had been home was to bring back Arthur’s body.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Not just because his heart had broken anew with every mile, and not even because he’d dreaded his arrival at home. How could he face his aunt and uncle, delivering to them their dead son?

As if all that hadn’t been enough, it was damned hard to move a body from France to England to Ireland. He’d had to find a coffin, which was surprisingly difficult in the middle of a war. “Supply and demand,” one of his friends told him after their first unsuccessful attempt to obtain a coffin. There were a lot of dead bodies strewn about. Coffins were the ultimate luxury on a battlefield.

But he had persisted, and he’d followed to the letter the directions he’d been given by the undertaker, filling the wooden coffin with sawdust and sealing it with tar. Even then the smell eventually seeped through, and by the time he reached Ireland, no driver would take the cargo. He’d had to buy his own wagon to get his cousin home.

The journey had disrupted his own life, too. The army refused his request to be allowed to move the body, and he was forced to sell off his commission. It was a small price to pay, to be able to do this one last service for his family. But it had meant that he’d had to leave a position for which he was—finally—a perfect fit. School had been a misery, failure after failure. He’d muddled through, mostly with help from Arthur, who, seeing his struggles, had come quietly to his aid.

But university—good God, he still could not believe he’d been encouraged to go. He had known it would be a disaster, but Portora Royal boys went on to university. It was as simple as that. But Arthur was a year behind, and without him, Jack didn’t have a prayer. Failure would have been too mortifying, so he got himself booted out. Not that it took much imagination to find ways to behave in a manner unbecoming of a Trinity College student.

He had returned home, supposedly in disgrace, and it was decided that he might do well in the army. So off he went. It had been a perfect fit. Finally, a place he could succeed and thrive without books and papers and quills. It wasn’t that he was unintelligent. It was just that he hated books and papers and quills. They gave him a headache.

But that was all over, and now here he was, on his way back to Ireland for the first time since Arthur’s funeral service, and he might be the Duke of Wyndham, which would ensure him a bloody lifetime of books and papers and quills.

And headaches.

He glanced off to his left and saw Thomas standing by the bow with Amelia. He was pointing toward something—probably a bird, since Jack could not see anything else of interest. Amelia was smiling, perhaps not broadly, but enough at least to ease some of the guilt Jack was feeling about the scene back at Belgrave when he had refused to marry her. It wasn’t as if he could have done anything else. Did they really think he would roll over and say, Oh, yes, give me anyone! I’ll just show up at the church and be grateful.

Not that there was anything wrong with Lady Amelia. In fact, one could (and probably would) do much worse, if one were to be forced into marriage. And if he hadn’t met Grace…

He might have been willing to do it.

He heard someone approaching, and when he turned, there she was, as if summoned by his thoughts. She’d left off her bonnet, and her dark hair was ruffling in the breeze.