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Page 11 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 11

J ohnathan had never known peace to be so loud.

The hamlet was small, yes. Quiet in the way only country establishments could be. But the stillness left too much space for thought, and now that his body was not racing across England, the noise in his mind had returned.

He sat in the back garden behind the inn, sharpening his dagger with methodical strokes of the whetstone. His coat hung from a nearby post, and the sun had begun to warm the stone bench beneath him. Frances was in the green, purchasing supplies. He should have gone with her.

But something had been clawing at him since dawn—a gnawing discomfort not born of pain, but quiet.

It was letting himself want.

He had never believed himself capable of peace—not in the true sense. The kind that meant looking a woman in the eye and saying, Yes, I will be here tomorrow. And the day after. And always.

But Frances had upended that belief.

He could still feel the warmth of her beside him, the softness in her eyes when she smiled, the way she had danced barefoot with him beneath the stars as though they were not broken, were not pretending. As though they belonged to no one but each other.

And perhaps they did.

He did not deserve her. But he wanted her nonetheless.

He was still weighing how to tell her that—how to ask her, truly ask her, to marry him—when a shadow passed across the garden gate.

Johnathan looked up.

And froze.

“William?” he said, rising slowly to his feet.

The Duke of Powis stepped through the gate, immaculate in his riding coat, his dark chestnut hair windswept but perfectly groomed.

“Hello, Hargate,” he said, his voice smooth.

Johnathan narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same.” William’s tone was calm. But too calm. Cold. “Though I suspect the answer involves a young lady with a sharp tongue and a powerful father.”

Johnathan stepped forward, jaw tightening. “You were at White’s a week ago. The day I left London.”

“I was,” William said. “And shortly after, your name started echoing through every drawing room between Mayfair and Grosvenor Square. ‘Did you hear? Hargate stole a lady from the altar.’ ‘Did you hear? Hargate’s gone mad.’ I had to see it for myself.”

Johnathan’s fists clenched. “You followed me?”

“No,” William said, arching a brow. “I was invited.”

That word—invited—landed like a blade.

Johnathan’s breath stilled. “You did not.”

“I did,” said William. “Cranford’s man found me. Said you had gone rogue. Said Frances Rowley was in danger. And I…” He shrugged. “I thought, perhaps this time Hargate truly has ruined himself.”

Johnathan advanced. “You gave him our location?”

“I told him where you might be headed,” William replied. “The rest, he seemed quite capable of determining.”

“You betrayed me.”

William’s expression flickered—just for a second. Regret? No. Worse. Justification.

“I made a choice,” he said. “To protect you. You have made a mockery of your name, Johnathan. You have courted scandal for a decade. But dragging a woman through the country like a lovesick pup? That was not you. You are a rogue who has adamantly sworn off marriage.”

Johnathan’s voice dropped. “You think I would hurt her?”

“I think you have lost sight of who you are.” He shook his head. “I assured everyone that her reputation was the only thing in danger. You always were good at underestimating what matters most.”

“I found who I am,” Johnathan growled. “With her.”

For long heart-beats, neither spoke.

Then William exhaled. “It does not signify. He is on his way. Cranford. With furry and the lady’s father’s blessing. With power.”

Johnathan stared at him, the truth curdling in his gut.

“You have no idea what you have done,” he whispered. “You think this is about a wayward match? About gossip and embarrassment? He does not want her because he loves her—he wants her because she humiliated him. Because she refused him. I love her”

“I did not know,” William muttered.

“No,” Johnathan said. “You did not ask.”

“And if I had?” William arched an eyebrow.

Johnathan turned away, chest heaving, the fury rising in him dark and sharp. Bloody fool that he was would not have said he loved her before leaving London. William was right, but it scarcely excused his betrayal.

William did not follow.

Johnathan strode from the garden, up the path, toward the center of the hamlet where the sun glinted off rooftops and the scent of heather rolled in with the breeze.

He needed to find Frances.

He needed to marry her or hid her at once.

Before, it was too late.

Johnathan found Frances at the edge of the hamlet green, her basket tucked over one arm, a small loaf of bread and a folded kerchief of strawberries balanced inside. She wore a shawl draped loosely around her shoulders, her cheeks pink from the morning sun.

She looked up when she saw him, smiling. “You ought to have come with me. They are selling the most divine shortbread?—”

“Frances,” he interrupted, too sharp, too fast.

Her breath caught, her heart giving a startled lurch, her fingers tightening around the handle of the basket. For a heartbeat, everything fell away—the sunlight, the market sounds, the scent of strawberries.

She met his gaze, her smile faltering. “What is it?”

He reached her in three long strides and took her arm more firmly than he intended, though his touch immediately gentled. “We must go.”

She blinked. “What? Why?”

He lowered his voice. “Cranford is coming. Someone betrayed us.”

The basket slipped from her arm and hit the grass with a soft thud.

“Who?” she asked.

Johnathan did not answer. He did not need to.

Her eyes narrowed. “One of your friends?”

He nodded once. “William, Duke Powis.”

Frances exhaled slowly, her posture tightening. “I thought they were your brothers in arms.”

“They were,” he said bitterly. “Or I was stupid enough to believe so.”

She only nodded once, her jaw set.

“Come now,” he said. “We will ride to the western road. It leads into the hills—rough country, but we will lose any pursuit faster than we would on the main road.”

Frances did not hesitate. “Quickly.”

They returned to the inn at a near-run, and Johnathan instructed the innkeeper to have their horses saddled within minutes. He packed quickly, efficiently. Frances moved just as swiftly, retrieving their things and donning her cloak.

Neither spoke until they were alone in the stable yard.

Before he could lift her into the saddle, Frances stepped in front of him. “Why did he do it?” she asked. “Your friend.”

Johnathan hesitated, blew out a breath. “I think part of him thought he was saving me,” he admitted. “But I also think part of him did not believe I was capable of change.”

Frances’s brow furrowed, her hand tightening slightly at her side, the movement small but charged with feeling. Beneath her calm, her heart roiled with disbelief and hurt—not just for the betrayal, but for what it meant to the man she stood beside. This was not merely an affront to their safety. It was personal. And it made her all the more certain of where she stood. “I am sorry.”

“No,” Johnathan said. “Put it from your mind. The fault is not yours.”

She touched his cheek, her hand light but grounding. Her fingers brushed the side of his face, tracing the lines that spoke of both pain and resilience. “You are not the man they remember,” she said softly.

His throat tightened. “You are the reason for that.”

They departed just after noon, the sun at their backs, the breeze carrying with it the scent of danger not yet visible—but rapidly approaching.

They took the smaller trail west, and within the hour, the road became too narrow for carts, the hills rising on either side in steep green swells. Heather and bramble choked the path in places. Birds scattered from low branches as they passed, and a distant eagle wheeled high overhead.

By late afternoon, they reached a rocky overhang that offered both shelter and elevation. Johnathan led them up, dismounting at the crest and scanning the horizon.

Below, in the distance, a cloud of dust rose on the main road.

Riders.

“They are close,” he muttered.

Frances stood beside him, her eyes scanning the same stretch. “Do we have time to rest?”

“An hour,” he said. “Maybe.”

They hobbled the horses under the trees and made camp on a mossy shelf above the trail, concealed by brush and stone. Johnathan worked without a word, laying out what little they had. Frances sat cross-legged beside the fire pit, her hands wrapped around a canteen.

Finally, she spoke. “What will you do? If he catches us?”

Johnathan did not look at her. “He will not.”

“That is not an answer.”

He stared into the trees. “I will fight. Whatever it takes.”

Frances’s voice dropped. “What if you are forced to kill him?”

His jaw clenched. “Then I will live with it.”

She was quiet for a long time.

“And if he takes me?” She averted her gaze.

Johnathan turned sharply. “He will not.”

Her gaze caught his. “But if he does.”

He knelt in front of her, eyes fierce. “I would set the world afire to reclaim you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Do not say things like that.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because they are true?”

“No,” she whispered. “Because they make me want to believe in forever.”

He cupped her cheek, voice low, his tone edged with something raw and unguarded. Johnathan’s voice dropped lower, heavy with a truth he had never voiced aloud before. “Then believe it, Frances. Believe that I am here, not because I must be, but because I choose you—with every breath, with every step forward.””

“I do,” she said.

And she kissed him—hard and fast and desperate.

The kiss was not about tenderness this time. It was about war. About fear. About the helpless, staggering weight of knowing that their love—so fragile, so fiercely won—could be taken at any moment.

Her lips trembled against his, fierce with unspoken fear. He held her tightly, anchoring her to this world with everything he had left to give.

Because William’s betrayal had opened a door he did not know he had been keeping shut. It was not just about old wounds or mistrust. It was about the realization that the world they had been trying to outrun was still behind them.

And no matter how far they traveled, it would not stop unless they faced it. Unless they married.

They sat close, her head tucked against his shoulder, his arm around her. The heat between them was not the desperate kind anymore. It was steadier now. Fierce in a different way.

Johnathan stared into the distance and thought of William.

They had known each other since Cambridge. Fought side by side in duels—over honor, over debts, over women neither of them could remember now. William had been the one to drag Johnathan from a gaming hell one night when he was too drunk to stand. The one who had once confessed he feared becoming his father’s cold, legacy-obsessed shadow. The one who had toasted him on the day he inherited Hargate.

And now?

He had handed Frances over with a single careless sentence.

Johnathan did not feel hatred.

He felt grief.

“You are quiet,” Frances murmured, her voice soft.

He glanced down. “Thinking.”

“About William?”

He nodded.

“I am sorry,” she said. “It is always worse when it is someone you trusted.”

“It is not just the betrayal,” he replied. “It is realizing he never truly saw me at all.”

She shifted to face him. “Then maybe he was never your friend. Not really.”

“No,” he said. “Maybe not. But he was my last tie to the man I used to be. The one who ran from everything.”

Frances studied him for a moment. “And now?”

“Now…” He let out a slow breath. “I think it is time I stop running.”

She reached for his hand. “We marry, then. Right away.”

“Is that your wish?” He meet her gaze. “There are other options.”

Frances leaned her head against his again, and Johnathan felt a calm settle over him—not because the danger had passed, but because he knew exactly what he was willing to fight for.

Not his title.

Not his pride.

Her.

This woman with the fierce mind and the untamed spirit, who had challenged him every step of the way, who had seen past the scandal and shadow and chosen to stay.

He pulled his signing ring from his finger. The metal was cool and slightly worn. The silver dulled in places, but still proud, still solid. The family crest, a stag poised atop a hill, caught the light with a glint that danced over its surface. Once, it had felt like a burden. A shackle.

“This is more than an heirloom,” he said, his voice quiet. “It is a promise. Whatever happens, Frances… I want you to have this.”

He took her hand and slid the ring onto her thumb, the silver still faintly warm from where it had rested against his skin. The metal gleamed like a secret passed between hearts. “This is not merely a token,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “It is everything I am. Everything I offer. A pledge that wherever you walk, I will be beside you—in spirit, in truth, in name. No matter what you decide.”

Her gaze locked with his.

“I am yours,” he said, voice low. “I have been, since the moment you looked at me like I was not broken.”

She did not cry. She did not gasp.

She simply leaned in and kissed him—slow and certain and unshaken.

And though the storm still loomed on the horizon, Johnathan knew they would survive it.

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