Page 26 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 26

Eammon

B ootles gentleman’s club was alive with chatter and the clatter of forks and spoons against porcelain, though Eammon found himself feeling out of sorts. This did not go unnoticed by his cousin.

“You look utterly dreadful,” Thomas remarked, causing Eammon to scoff. It was hardly a surprise he did not present his finest visage, given the restless nights he had endured for days on end.

Almost a week had passed since the ball at his aunt and uncle's residence, and though their ruse had succeeded—London was abuzz with gossip concerning the Duke and Duchess of Leith and their dramatic waltz at the ball—matters at home remained far from resolved.

That wretched waltz. It was no wonder that it was considered sinful to share such a dance in the past. Today, their society was less stringent, less prudish, and thus, it was danced widely. Still, he could see how it had earned its reputation of being the most improper of dances.

He had wanted to enjoy himself when he and Thomas had exited the smoking room, it was true. He’d intended to take a turn with her—but when he’d seen her, he’d known he had to stay away. Something about her had a hold over him, and he could not give in. Thus, he’d stirred a disagreement between them and left. He would have stayed away, too, if not for Lord Barron’s appearance. Seeing that man with her had invoked a flame of jealousy in him.

Nobody spoke to his wife in so intimate a manner. Especially not when their entire ruse hinged on people believing they were wed. Thus, he’d interceded—and found himself dancing the waltz with her after all.

The dance had stirred within him emotions he had scarcely known how to wield. As they’d danced, he had gazed into Charity's eyes, so alive with curiosity and vibrancy. He had felt her form in his grasp more acutely than ever, his longing to draw her towards him, to hold her close, almost overwhelming.

The kiss had been entirely unplanned. Indeed, it had swept over him with unexpected force as the dance had ended. He had sought a dramatic conclusion to their performance, thinking a dip would suffice. Yet, as he’d dipped her and seen her looking up at him, the light of the chandelier reflected in her bright eyes, his desire to kiss her had overtaken him entirely.

Now, he regretted that impulsive act. She had surely perceived it as a signal of deeper sentiment; why would she not? He himself had believed it to signify something, too, given the way they’d looked at each other. He was all too aware it meant that his feelings for her were spiraling beyond his control—he was falling in love with his wife. And she undoubtedly felt the same. Thus, he’d done his best to remove himself from her over this past week, excusing himself from their shared dinner and spending time away from home.

He wanted to do the opposite, to seek her company, to be with her all day and night, but he could not. Distance was what was needed.

“Eammon?” Thomas called, drawing him back from his dark reverie. He noticed their whiskeys before them. “Pray, what were you pondering? No, do not tell me. Charity.”

“What else?” Eammon grumbled.

“What else indeed,” Thomas replied, arching an eyebrow. “Considering you think of her at all hours, do you not find it wise to confess what is obvious for all to see? You care for her.”

“So what if I do?” he barked, his voice rising a shade too loudly, provoking curious glances from the next table. “So what if I do?” he repeated, in a lower tone. “She is my wife.” He wiped his brow, a bead of perspiration forming.

“You were adamant about keeping her at a distance when we spoke after the ball,” Thomas reminded him gently.

“You need not parrot my own words back to me; I am most familiar with them,” Eammon replied tersely. Indeed, it was true—after the ball, he had sought counsel with Thomas and lamented how challenging it had become to be near Charity following their dance. He knew Thomas’s counsel to tell her the truth was the correct way. He should tell her. Honesty was best. His parents had always insisted on honesty and advocated against keeping secrets outside of the family.

But he could not confess that he had married her to secure his own hidden secret, nor could he share that secret with her. Moreover, he felt a profound impulse to shield her, recognizing that Markham would never relent.

“I must maintain a distance for her sake as well as mine,” Eammon affirmed, and Thomas shrugged.

“I suppose if you believe that to be best, then so be it,” Thomas replied. “However, it may well jeopardize your chance at happiness with her.”

“I know that,” Eammon replied. “But I cannot risk revealing my truth or placing her in a position where she might unearth matters she ought not to. I shall follow your counsel—secure the book and incinerate any evidence. Then, perhaps, I may finally be free, and Charity and I might become something more. Until then, I cannot permit her to draw too near to me because—” He faltered, uncertain of the future he envisioned. He was unaccustomed to such ambiguity. Assertiveness and decisive action came naturally to him, qualities that commanded attention and respect. Yet feeling adrift was a discomfort he detested, and still, Charity had evoked it in him.

He had been so certain of how his life would unfold post-wedding. He would pursue his endeavors, while she would pursue hers—but that was no longer the case.

He had seen in her a brave, compassionate spirit—qualities he desired in a wife. Yet a secret loomed between them, a threat that refused to fade.

“When do you expect it?” Thomas inquired, both men knowing precisely what “it” referred to.

“It is en route from Pembroke even now,” Eammon responded. “It should arrive posthaste, and perhaps then I can cast off this cross I bear.”

He leaned back, yearning for the relief that freedom from this burden might bring. Thomas withdrew his watch fob, flicked it open, and glanced at the time. With a measured nod, he snapped it shut. “I must see my father. The shop on Bond Street has suffered no small measure of irregularities in its ledger, and we must set it aright. I shall call on you the day after tomorrow.”

Thomas rose and inclined his head before emptying his glass and slipping out.

Rising as well, Eammon strode toward the club’s interior, past the card room, the smoking room, and the billiards room, where he hesitated. He had not played since his father’s passing, but it had been a favored pastime of years past. He picked up a cue and ran his hand along its length, feeling himself transported back to Hayward House, to their billiards room, to happier times spent in his father’s company. He lifted the chalk and turned it in his fingers before setting up the shot. He was alone, but it mattered not. Nostalgia settled over him as he struck the ball, sending it cleanly across the table to knock against the red.

From childhood, his father had taught him the game—or rather, Alexander had. He carried vague recollections of his earliest years, of a third figure. His true sire, or as he had come to think of him, his earthly father. Alexander had been his guide, his dearest friend, and on occasion, they had played billiards with Eammon. He had been but three or four, his fondest memory of those days when he had sought to abscond with the red and white balls, devising a different game entirely—much to his father’s protests.

“A lonely figure you cut,” a voice observed, and he looked up. Markham stood in the doorway, smirking as he entered. “I see your shadow has left you.”

“I require no shadow,” Eammon said, rising to his full height, towering half a head over Markham, who was both short and stout. “But you shall, if you do not cease your harassment of myself and my?—”

“Your wife,” Markham interjected with a sneer. “As though she were truly yours. You know as well as I that?—”

“I know that she and I are wed. We are society’s most talked about couple, while you remain alone and unwed.”

“We both know that all this talk about your whirlwind romance nothing but gammon. We both know what this was truly about.”

“Do we? Well, then we also both know that I have what it was we both wanted,” he said, though he felt badly for speaking of material goods when Charity had caused him upheaval for entirely different reasons, unrelated to her inheritance.

Markham’s lips parted, then pressed shut as he scoffed before speaking. “Ah. So it is as I thought. You care naught for her. You never have. You care for what she brings. As did I, and every man who sought to curry favor with Pembroke. Tell me, does the duchess know that you married her not for affection, nor for beauty or wit, but because she is the key to the secrets of every noble family in the realm?”

Eammon did not believe the Book of Confidences wielded such power. He was more concerned with his own secret, not that of others. Alas, Markham clearly did. And that made him a dangerous foe.

“My wife knows what she needs know. As, indeed, do I.” He tipped his head, crossed his arms, and smirked. “I will have you know, she came into her inheritance and I have taken charge of it—and all it contains.”

It struck him then—if Markham were so desperate for the book that he had sought to force Charity’s hand, to spread rumors that would leave her no recourse but marriage to him, then he must fear what was contained within the book’s pages. Had he not just claimed it held the key to the reputations of every noble house? His own must be among them. At least, he hoped so, for the gamble he was embarking on now would only work if Markham feared his own family’s shame was inscribed in the pages of Lord Pembroke’s book.

“Well, there is no need to pretend anymore. We both wanted the book, the long talked about mysterious book. Many thought it an illusion, but I knew it to be real,” Markham said, voice laden with provocation. “The question is, does Lady Charity know of its existence? I daresay she does not know you wed her for the book. Shall we test the matter? Shall we ask her?”

Rage ignited in Eammon’s gut, spreading like wildfire through every limb.

“I said,” he ground out, “you will leave her be.”

“Oh, so you do have something to hide? So she does not know, does she? Well, perhaps?—”

Before Markham could spew whatever drivel he had planned, Eammon seized him by the collar and drove him against the wall. They were alone—no one to intervene. Not that anyone would. Markham was a man with few friends, and none who would aid him aside from his cousin.

“I warn you once,” Eammon said, voice a blade honed to lethal sharpness. “Should you so much as come near her again, should you utter one more falsehood about her, should you send one of your lackeys after her, you will regret it. I hold the Book of Confidences and all it contains. I will not hesitate to lay bare your father’s sins before the world.”

He had not an inkling if the book held any record of Markham’s family, but it was a wager worth making. Markham had no brothers. If he feared the book, it must be for himself or his father. A risk, but one he had to take.

Eammon held his gaze, fingers tightening on his collar. “Do we understand one another?”

All color fled Markham’s face, and he managed a stiff nod despite Eammon’s grip, confirming Eammon’s suspicion. The book contained something about the Markhams. It was why he’d been so desperate to wed Charity—just as Eammon had been.

“I understand,” he rasped.

Eammon released him so swiftly, the man staggered against the wall. Adjusting his coat, he stepped back.

“Good. Then we have no further business.”

He turned on his heel, quit the room, and slammed the door behind him. Striding out to his carriage, he climbed in and settled into the seat. His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists as rage rushed through him.

Markham would not stop. He was a man motivated by the same need to protect his secrets that Eammon had. He was a danger. Not to Eammon, for he could crush Markham like a fly, but to Charity—and perhaps, their legacy.

And if Markham was willing to do what it took to get the book, others would be also. Eammon would have to stop them, stop them all before they had a chance. He’d lied about the inheritance already being in his hands, of course. He had gained control of all the financial aspects, but the materials from Pembroke Manor were still en route. Once he found the book, which he knew would be among the items from Lord Pembroke’s study, he’d have to destroy it.

The secrets had to be burned.

Every word Pembroke had gathered—not only on his family but on every family—had to be turned to ash.

And the world had to be told that it was gone.

For only then would Charity ever know peace.