Page 35 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 35

Eammon

“L ady Millie, you must inform me of my wife's whereabouts,” Eammon demanded. He had arrived at Hartford an hour prior and had finally coaxed Lady Millie into confessing that Charity was not at Hartford at all. The entire affair had been a ruse. “Why did she claim to be here?” he asked.

“Eammon,” Lady Millie said, using the name he had offered her to use when they were alone, the day he and Charity had taken her and Thomas into their confidence at the registry office. “She came to my house two nights ago and disclosed the argument you had. She confided that she needed time away to reflect, but did not think her mother would let her stay at her townhouse as she would view it as improper. She implored me to tell my mother we were en route to Hartford so that I might serve as her alibi while she went away to where she truly wished to go…”

“Which is where, Lady Millie? You must divulge this to me.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I shall not share any confidences,” she replied, reverting to his formal title as a servant passed them in the hall. She motioned for the drawing room then and they stepped inside before she continued. “She is my cousin. I have no sisters of my own, only brothers, and consequently, I consider both her and Eleanor as sisters. I shan’t betray her confidence. However, I shall share my honest opinion regarding your actions.”

“You need not voice it. There are many things I have done wrong—many things I regret. Yet I cannot amend them unless I am informed of her whereabouts.”

“You speak of your secrets, I imagine. The same secrets you have kept from my cousin all this time, the ones you protected with lies,” Millie stated, though her tone did not give away how she felt about this.

“I admit to having done so, but it was for her own sake.”

“Please do not invoke her safety. She has made it abundantly clear that she wishes to hear no more of this, and neither do I.”

“But it is true, at least in part. While it is as you say, there are indeed matters I should have disclosed to her, yet did not, I now lament that oversight. I wish to rectify this situation, but I cannot until I find her. So please, tell me where she might be.” After a moment's hesitation, he added. “She may well be in danger.”

“In danger?” Millie asked, her eyebrows arched in concern. “From whom? Markham?”

“Yes. I cannot say more, but there is something Charity is the key to—a dreadful secret.”

“The wretched Book of Confidences?” Millie questioned, rolling her eyes.

“You know of it?”

“I may have been born in Hartford, yet I was reared in London. Every few years, someone would mention Lord Pembroke’s Book of Confidences, and on discovering my relation to him, I would be interrogated about it. Are you asserting it is real?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “And I believe Markham—and others—desire it and would stop at nothing to get it.”

Millie surmised, “So it was part of Charity’s inheritance, and that is why Markham sought to wed her. It is why he resorted to such means even while my uncle yet lived.”

“Quite so,” he affirmed. “He and many others. Although some may have pursued her less forcefully, given your uncle passed not long ago.”

“Did you marry her for the sake of the book?” she inquired sharply.

He shook his head. “There were many reasons for which I married her. Once I have revealed the truth to her, I will gladly share all with you as well. But first, I must locate her. And then I must locate the book. As long as it is not secured, she and I are both in danger from men like Markham.”

Millie nodded. “Perhaps that is what she sought to find. She mentioned returning to Pembroke in search of something from her childhood. She insisted on being alone, and so I offered to refrain from accompanying her. Yet, if that is indeed where she is…”

Eammon mused, Hartford was but a brisk ride from Hayward; yet it would take another day to reach Pembroke, even with a swift carriage exchanging horses only at posting houses.

“I must go there.”

“No, you must not, truly,” Millie cautioned. “For one, it would not please her to know you are pursuing her there. And for another, she shall return this evening. She dispatched a letter via express this morning stating she is on her way back. So, I suppose you could remain here and await her return. That is, if you promise not to agitate her further.”

“Of course not. It was never my intention,” he said, but then reflected on the matter. No, his intention had not been to vex her. Yet, at times, his actions had indeed pushed her away. Millie observed him with her head tilted thoughtfully.

“From what she conveyed to me, you did your utmost to vex her.”

“I felt it was what I needed to do,” he replied, “but I see now that I was mistaken. I should have spoken to her. I shall, as soon as I am able.”

“Very well,” Millie said, “I shall summon a servant to show you to your chamber. I suspect that even if you and she reconcile tonight, you shall not return to Hayward.”

“I should think not,” he replied, “and I am grateful.”

* * *

He heard the carriage that contained his wife before he beheld it. He had opened the window to hear it arrive. He leapt from the bed on which he had been resting and pulled out his watch fob. It was six in the evening—still early. She had made good time. He hastened to the window and saw Lady Millie rushing from the house. Charity tumbled from the carriage into her cousin’s arms, and the two embraced. Charity carried something with her, which she then took from the carriage, an item wrapped in linen. He had an inkling of what it might be.

Then, Millie took Charity’s arm and spoke. He could not see Lady Millie’s face as she turned from him, but he could see Charity’s. She had appeared haggard as she exited, but now anger flooded her expression as she glanced up at the window, glaring at him.

Charity turned as though she wished to retreat back into the carriage, yet Millie restrained her.

“Charity, please wait!” he called from the window. He hurried down, reaching the grand entry hall just as the front door opened, revealing Millie and Charity.

“I shall leave you two,” Millie said, turning before Charity could reach her.

Charity held aloft the wrapped item. “This is what you desire, is it not? The secret—the reason you married me.”

“The book?”

“Yes, the Book of Confidences. It is the reason Markham was so determined to make me his bride; it is why his cousin pursued me at your aunt and uncle's ball; it is why Markham tortured me with horrid rumors about my character. And the reason you deceived me into this marriage—so that you could safeguard your sordid secrets, Eammon Keene.”

His heart dropped like a heavy stone. She knew. She knew everything. He stumbled back a step, then steadied himself, drawing to his full height. He would not falter now. He would stand firm and confront this head-on.

“Charity, please,” he began, walking into the parlor, not beckoning her to join him, though he hoped his tone alone would suffice.

She followed him, though when he turned to face her, he was uncertain if it was his tone or the passionate fire fueling her every step that compelled her.

She clutched the book, still wrapped in linen, against her chest like a shield. “You are not a duke. You are an impostor, and you wed me to conceal that ignoble truth.”

“I did not!” he protested, yet it was true. He had married her to protect his secret. While that had been the incentive for their union, it was no longer the reason he desired to be with her.

“Charity, you must comprehend. I did not choose this destiny. I was but a child when my parents made this decision.”

“I understand perfectly well,” she countered. “I do not blame you for being raised as someone you are not. However, you did not conjure this fallacious story of an Irish mother, nor the falsehood of you being the duke’s true, secret son. In reality, who are you?” she asked, her tone sharp.

He pressed his lips together, moving to secure the window. Habit dictated that he safeguard their conversation; each time he confronted his past, he ensured no ears could overhear. What might have transpired had someone discovered the truth long ago? What might his life have been?

Yet there was no point ruminating on past regrets. He had to tell her the truth.

“My true parents were John and Maebh Keane. They were Alexander’s dearest friends, the first to offer him kindness on his arrival in Ireland with naught. Their friendship endured throughout their lifetimes. When Alexander ascended to his title as a marquess, he sought to mend bonds with his sisters, returning to England to restore the family legacy. Eventually, he became a duke—the first Duke of Leith.”

“Is that where the tale ends?” she pressed, incredulity evident.

“It is but the beginning,” he confessed. “To provide me with a respectable life, he knew I must marry—a mystery I never fully grasped. My father resisted matrimony, aware that one day, he must marry for the duke’s lineage to endure. Yet, at that time, he had no inclination to wed. When I arrived, he found himself unable to relate to me. Thus, he married?—”

“Against her will. That appears to be a recurrent theme in your family,” she remarked.

The sting of her words pierced him deeply. Yet he could not contest their truth.

“In time, my parents grew to love one another and found true happiness. They raised me as their own. Soon after, Marjorie and Hazel joined our family, yet my mother was unable to bear further children. Should no son and heir come about, the duke’s title would be lost on my father’s passing, reverting back to the crown to be bestowed on another. This notion distressed them both. They saw me as their true son and felt it only right that I inherit.”

“What if they had conceived a natural-born son?” she inquired, her gaze cast down to his shoes. He had often contemplated this very question, wishing he could pose it to his parents. A part of him recognized that if a true son had been born, the lie surrounding his Irish mother would never have emerged.

“I cannot say,” he responded quietly, “and I prefer not to dwell on it. What is done is done. They resolved to claim me as the heir, fabricating an Irish mother, assisted by your father, who was a good friend to mine. This was not an act of blackmail, but rather an act of friendship. Very few are privy to this information.”

“And who amongst them?” she pressed, brimming with curiosity.

“Only my parents’ generation—Alexander’s three sisters and their husbands, as well as Lydia’s older sister. They remember my arrival as a five-year-old. Of course, many others do, but the tale of the shameful first Irish Catholic wife became widely believed. In those days, the disdain for the Irish and Catholics ran deep. It was entirely plausible for Alexander to wish to conceal the truth of such a scandalous marriage. My mother’s younger sisters have no inkling, nor do any of my cousins, save Thomas. And none shall ever learn.”

She finally placed the wrapped book beside her. “Why did you not disclose the truth to me?”

“Because I feared you would believe I married you solely for the sake of the book.”

“Is that not so?” she retorted, her piercing gaze leaving no doubt about her sentiments.

“At first, yes. When my mother informed me that you were to wed Lord Markham, I understood that the book would inevitably fall into his hands, and I would be undone. She also cautioned me that I must protect you, for my father had promised.”

“Your father promised you would wed me?” she asked, her sharpness transformed into indignation.

“No, your father requested mine to look after you, should he find himself lacking,” he clarified. “Bear in mind, your father was considerably older than mine. In any case, I care for you, Charity. I do.”

The tension in the room thickened as they both grappled with the weight of truths long shrouded in secrecy.

* * *

Charity looked at him, anger still coursing through her veins. Her entire body felt as though it had remained in a state of perpetual shock since she had discovered the documents. The entire ride from Pembroke back to Hartford, she had pored over the book, read its contents again and again, yet she found herself returning—compulsively—to the part about Eammon’s family. He had lied to her. He had withheld the truth. He had kept from her the reason he had truly married her.

And now he claimed to care for her?

“I do not believe you. I do not believe that you care for me. I think you wanted me because you wanted the book—to protect yourself, for power. All you men who already possess more influence than anyone could fathom always you hunger for more.”

“That is not true,” he said, though his tongue faltered, and his voice seemed to admit there may be some truth in her words.

“Do you truly believe I married you to acquire the book? To seize more power?” he asked. “I am already a duke. One of the highest-ranking men in society. I have no need of a book to elevate me further. What heights remain?”

“I do not know,” she replied coolly. “Perhaps you had hoped it might catapult you into some loftier position at court.”

He scoffed, leaning back. “Do you think I could not gain a position at court should I desire one? I could be Lower Chancellor if I pleased. I have been offered a place on the Privy Council and declined. I have no desire to live among the intrigues of court. I am content where I stand. I would never use the contents of that book against anyone. The fact that you think so poorly of me only tells me you do not know me at all.”

“Perhaps I would not think so poorly of you had you not hidden this from me. Had you not lied. Had you not drawn me close one moment, only to push me away the next,” she snapped. “If you had ever truly let me see who you are...”

The truth was, though she returned again and again to this dark suspicion—that he had married her for the book and the power it promised—her heart did not truly believe it. She knew he did not need it. He had influence enough without it. Still, for many, it never was enough.

He sighed. “Charity, I did not desire the book for anything beyond what secrets it may contain about me. I do not even wish to read it. You may burn it, if you like, so long as you destroy anything that pertains to me along with it.”

“So it was just your secret you wanted to protect, then,” she said, shaking her head. “You married me for that. At least we have one truth between us.”

He sat down now, clasping his hands before him.

“It is not true that I married you only to protect my secret. There were other reasons. I truly did wish to keep you safe...”

“So that the inheritance was safe,” she interrupted.

He rubbed his brow. “At first, yes. But it was also a matter of honor. You see, what I said is true. Long ago, your father asked mine to ensure your well-being. If he were to pass first, he wanted my father to look after you.”

Charity said nothing. But she knew this to be true. Her father’s letters had suggested as much. He hadn’t stated it outright, but she had understood.

“At my father’s funeral,” he continued, “your father came to me and said something I did not then understand. He said he expected me to honor my father’s promise. I was not in the mind to truly understand what he meant, but I do now.”

“And how do you know what promise my father extracted from yours?” she asked.

“I overheard him,” Eammon said, surprising her. “I was but a boy of nine. I overheard their conversation about my becoming Duke of Leith one day and how your father had helped make it happen. I heard your father ask mine to protect you and any other siblings you might have—though I do not think your sister Eleanor had been born yet. In any case, my father promised. And I know that is the very vow your father spoke of. He wanted me to keep you safe, and I intend to do so. Everything I have done has been in pursuit of that.”

She stood then, crossing her arms as she walked to the window. Outside, darkness was setting in. She could see no further than the end of the drive.

“You protected me by kissing me at a ball and then telling me it meant nothing, when we both knew it did? You protected me by making me care for you and then pushing me away?”

He said nothing for a long moment. His jaw moved, back and forth, as though grinding through thought.

“It is true. The kiss meant more. It meant everything. It was the moment I realized you had become more important to me than I ever believed possible.”

She blinked. She had expected him to deny any feelings for her. She had not expected such an admission.

“The truth is, when I married you, I thought we could have an arrangement—perhaps become friends. Whatever suited us best. But as we grew closer, I cannot deny your importance in my life grew exponentially. My desire to protect you now extends far beyond that wretched book.”

His gaze settled on her. For a moment, neither spoke.

“The reason I behaved so abominably of late—pushing you away, commanding you about—was because I feared what I had done. I had kept something vital from you. I ought to have told you. About the book. The promise. My true origins. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” she asked softly. “Do you not trust me? I know we have not known each other long, but you must know my character. I am your wife. Any scandal that touches you shall fall on me as well.”

“No,” he said. “You could have used it to leave me. You could have sought an annulment. I did not want to lose you. The longer I knew you, the more I feared losing you. And the greater that fear grew, the less able I became to speak the truth. The day you came to me and said you’d uncovered the truth about my Irish mother, I felt almost relieved. I believed you had discovered everything. But you had only unearthed the falsehood—the fiction of a Catholic mother meant to distract. A mother who does not exist.”

“You could have corrected me then,” she said. “We did not know each other well yet.”

“I know. At first, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know you. And I knew how greatly you resented this marriage. I did not trust you then. But when I began to trust you—when I began to feel...”

He paused. She wondered if he meant to say he loved her.

She wasn’t certain what she hoped he meant.

“Once you were important to me, I couldn’t tell you. I feared it would cost me everything. The night of the ball at my aunt and uncle’s estate, I saw how they welcomed you, embraced you as one of their own. I could picture you in my life. As my wife, as mother of my children. But I knew the secret would lie between us always. And I could not bring myself to speak.”

“So, because you feared losing me, you pushed me away? Made me feel I was nothing?”

“I know,” he said. “I was wrong. I should have listened to Thomas. He told me from the beginning to tell you everything. So did my mother. But I am, at times, a proud fool. I thought I knew best. Most of the time, I do. But not this time.”

“Clearly,” she said, returning to her seat.

“For what it is worth, I was going to tell you. I went to Hartford seeking you because I knew it was time. I needed to ask about the book, too. I could not find it among your father’s things. And I feared that while it remained hidden, Markham would not rest. He will pursue it—and you.”

“You think he would harm me?”

“He is desperate. I may have led him to believe I already had the book in my possession.”

“You did?” she asked.

He nodded. “A few days past, he found me at the club. We had words. He accused me of what you accuse me of—that I married you for the book. He implied he might find you and tell you, or worse. He made it plain he would not stop.”

“He is in it,” she said. “As is his father. There are many damning entries about their family.”

“I had assumed as much. I hoped that if he believed I already had it, he might give up. But I cannot be certain. In any case, I needed to find you. To ask your help in finding the book. To finally tell you the truth. And to give up this fight. I thought to burn it. Destroy all of it. Mine, and everyone else's.”

She nodded. “I think that would be best.”

“I feared for your safety. Truly, I did. I am glad you are well. And I am glad you found the book.”

“I suppose you want me to give it to you,” she said, resigned.

But to her surprise, he shook his head.

“It is your inheritance. I acted as though it were mine—because by law it is—but it is not truly mine. It belongs to you. You ought to decide what happens to it. But I hope that once you have thought it through, you will see that I do care for you.”

He paused.

“Charity, I love you.”

She looked up and gasped. He had said it. He loved her.

She wanted to say it back. But the moment did not feel right. She was not certain what she felt. Everything about him confused her now—even more than before.

“I understand,” he said as he stood. “I shall not press you. What happens now is yours to decide. You may forgive me. Give us a chance to be happy. Or, if you wish it, you may go. You shall remain my duchess, and I will ensure you are looked after. Or, if you prefer, we may seek to annul this marriage. I will take all the blame. I will admit all wrongs, so that you might be free. And perhaps, without the burden of the book, you may find someone with purer intentions.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She wanted to say she did not want an annulment. But she didn’t know what she wanted. The idea of being away from him, of being Lady Charity once more—something she had told Mrs. Jenkins only the day before she preferred—now felt like a bad dream. A lie.

She could not yet say she loved him, though her heart stirred to.

“You have all the time in the world,” he said. “Keep the book. Decide what you wish to do with it. I shall be here—whenever you are ready to answer.”

Then he left.

She picked up the book, still wrapped in a sheet, and placed it on her lap. It felt heavier now, as if pressing her into the chair. And yet it grounded her.

How far , she thought, recalling Mrs. Jenkins' words. Her housekeeper had said her father would be happy she had married him. Had told her that their fathers had had an understanding.

In a way, though they had been brought together by strange and strained circumstances, might it not be that they were meant to be? Was it divine providence? Or merely manipulation?

She did not know. Not yet.

But she knew what she must do next.

She had to rest. And in the morning, she would take Ambrose out to the meadow. Perhaps, walking alongside her dearest friend, she would find the answers she so desperately sought.