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Page 19 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 19

T he library at Hargate House had always felt too large.

A cavern of unread books and legacy, where his father’s voice seemed to linger in the corners like dust, and his own footsteps echoed with guilt. As a boy, Johnathan had hated it. As a young man, he had avoided it. And as a duke, he had ignored it altogether.

Until now.

Now, sunlight spilled across the carpet. Frances sat by the open window, her legs curled beneath her, a book open in her lap and one hand absently stroking the ears of a small, scruffy terrier she had insisted they rescue from the street the week prior.

Johnathan stood in the doorway and watched her for a long moment.

She looked up and smiled, catching him staring. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, crossing the room. “Just enjoying the view.”

She patted the seat beside her, and he sank into it, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Outside, summer had begun to spread across the gardens. The rose bushes his mother once tended were open, and the wind smelled of earth and possibility.

“I never thought this place could feel like home,” he murmured.

“And now?”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Now it is you.”

She closed her book and leaned into him, the dog sighing and rolling onto its back between them.

“Do you miss it?” she asked softly. “The chaos? The night’s carousing? The freedom of bachelorhood?”

He tilted his head, considering. “No. Though I do miss having excuses to carry you off into the night.”

She smiled. “We can still do that. Just with better boots, fresh stockings, and a proper coach.”

They laughed together, the sound bouncing against the shelves like music.

It had been a month since their return.

A month of sideways glances and sly commentary from society. Of invitations—some eager, some icy. A month of Frances walking into rooms like she owned them, and Johnathan walking beside her with the look of a man who knew exactly what he had.

They danced in ballrooms and strolled through the streets, heads high and hands clasped, never once offering excuses.

And, surprisingly, the world had begun to adjust.

Their marriage no longer drew gasps—only curiosity. Admiration, even, from those who had not expected the scandalous Duke of Hargate to turn respectable.

Only, he had not turned respectable.

He had simply stopped pretending not to care.

Because now, he did.

About the land. The people on it. The household that bore his name. The woman who had changed everything.

He was no longer a duke in name only.

He was becoming the man he should have always been.

That afternoon, their closest friends arrived.

William came first, impeccable as always, though his tie was slightly crooked—proof that he had dressed in haste and not vanity. “It is far too quiet here,” he declared upon entering the drawing room. “Do you no longer employ musicians to trail after you?”

Frances offered him a glass of wine. “We find serenity is more potent than scandal.”

“And far less expensive,” Johnathan added dryly.

Charles and Catherine De Vere, Duke and Duchess of Bedford arrived next, arms full of parcels and a newborn spaniel pup Catherine insisted was their child’s real sibling. Frances squealed and stole the pup immediately, and Johnathan found himself herding canines while William made jokes about the Wayward Dukes forming a kennel club.

Before long, the parlor was bursting with merriment and close friends. They drank. They laughed. They dined together on the terrace as the sun dipped behind the garden hedge.

It was a simple celebration. No fanfare. No toasts. No spectacle.

Just the people who mattered, gathered in one place.

“So,” Maximilian said, swirling his brandy as the spaniel snored at his feet, “now that most of us are married, titled, and terrifyingly settled, does this mean the Wayward Dukes are drawing to an end?”

William scoffed. “Hardly. We have simply evolved.”

“Into what?” Frances asked, curling into the corner of the settee with her wineglass.

“Mentors, apparently,” Johnathan said, giving her a sideways smile. “Maximilian and William are in dire need of our guidance.”

“Maximilian and William are terrible rogues,” Charles muttered into his glass. “We will break them of that yet.”

William grinned. “You say that as though the two of you were not worse before becoming domesticated.”

“We most certainly were not.” Johnathan grinned.

“Speak for yourself,” Charles said. “I was precisely as bad.”

Laughter rippled through the room. The fire cracked gently in the hearth, and the glow of candlelight caught in the glasses they raised together.

Later, when the stars came out and the guests filtered inside for warm brandy, Frances tugged Johnathan’s hand and led him to the edge of the lawn.

The night was crisp. The moon hung low.

And everything felt impossibly still.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” she asked.

He nodded. “I remember the sound of your heartbeat when I pulled you against me.”

“I was terrified.”

“So was I.”

They stood quietly for a long moment.

She stepped closer, slipping her arms around his waist. “What if we had never run?”

He looked down at her, brushing a hand over her cheek. “Then I never would have learned how to stay.”

Frances rose onto her toes, kissed him softly.

He was settled.

Not just in this house. Not just in the title.

But in this life. With this woman. In this quiet, brave, glorious peace they had carved out from a world that never wanted them to have it.

They lingered in the hush of the garden.

Frances guided him down a path, their fingers laced, her skirts brushing softly over the dew-kissed grass. Lanterns had been strung between the trees earlier that day, their soft glow flickering like fireflies against the night.

He pulled her into a gentle embrace, his hands smoothing over her back. She rested her head against his chest.

“I thought I had ruined it,” he whispered. “The night you first came to me. I thought… if I turned you away, I was saving you. But it nearly cost me everything.”

Frances looked up at him. “And what did you learn from that, Your Grace?”

“That being noble is a fine thing, but being honest is better.”

She smiled. “And what would you say now, if I appeared on your doorstep again, desperate and out of breath, asking you to help me escape?”

“I would sweep you inside,” he said without hesitation. “And I would say, it took you long enough.”

She laughed and kissed him again—slow and sure, the way one drinks in something rare.

The wind stirred the leaves above them. Somewhere in the distance, one of the dogs barked. The other joined in a brief chorus, then fell quiet again.

Frances drew back slightly. “Do you think we will grow bored?”

“Of what?”

“Of peace.”

Johnathan smiled. “Perhaps. But I imagine you will cause enough mischief to keep us entertained.”

“Of course. I plan to shock dinner parties for decades.”

“And I will defend your honor with charming wit and superior posture.”

She arched a brow. “You always were infuriatingly tall.”

“Comes in handy when dodging scandal.”

“Or dodging bullets in a duel.”

Johnathan laughed, his arms tightening around her. “We survived it all.”

“We did,” she agreed, softer now. She snuggled closer to him. “Do you think we will ever stop surviving?” she asked. “And just… live?”

He considered that.

Then, shook his head.

“No,” he said. “But that is the beauty of it. Surviving means we still have more living to do.”

She nodded, her eyes bright in the lantern light. “Good. Because I plan to live enough for both of us.”

“Frances Seton,” he said, “you already have.”

She rested her head against his chest again, her breath warm through his shirt.

And for the first time since his father’s death, since he had inherited the weight of the dukedom, since he had fallen into rakish distraction and earned the name the duke of no return, Johnathan felt no pull to run.

He felt grounded. Settled. Chosen.

Because he had returned.

Not to a place.

To a person.

To himself.

Later that evening, the fire in the drawing room crackled low, casting golden light across the walls. Glasses clinked, laughter spilled into the air, and the scent of plum brandy and roses mingled in the air.

Johnathan leaned against the hearth, a contented smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he took in the scene—the low murmur of voices, the flicker of firelight, and the woman who had anchored him in something real.

Frances, radiant in a soft lavender gown embroidered with tiny silver leaves, sat beside Catherine on the settee, their heads bowed together in deep conversation. Maximilian lounged nearby with a brandy in hand, tossing dry commentary toward William, who—of course—was arguing with the dog about the merits of grooming.

Johnathan lifted his glass and turned toward the room.

“I have made quite a few mistakes,” he began. “Far too many to list. I have run from expectations, from legacy, from myself. I have earned a reputation I no longer care to defend, and I have broken rules just for the satisfaction of it.”

He paused, his gaze landing on Frances.

“But somewhere along the way, I found her. Or she found me.”

Frances smiled, eyes shining.

“And in choosing her, I stopped running. I stopped pretending to be someone I was not. And I remembered the man I had buried.”

He raised his glass.

“So here is to the people who remind us who we are. To the friends who never let us drown in our own foolishness. And to the bold, unrepentant women who pull us forward into the light.”

Laughter bubbled around the room. Glasses were raised.

“To the wives,” Maximilian said. “May I never be so blessed.”

“To the duchesses who made us rogues respectable,” Charles added, his gaze locking with Catherine’s.

Frances stood, lifting her own glass. “To the duke of no return… who finally returned to the only place that ever mattered.”

Johnathan laughed. “I am retiring that title.”

“Good,” Maximilian muttered. “It was terribly melodramatic.”

They drank, and the fire popped merrily as the night wound on.

Later, after the last guests had gone and the servants had dimmed the lamps, Johnathan stood alone on the terrace. The stars were bright above the dark silhouette of London. The wind was cool but kind.

Frances joined him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.

“You are thinking again,” she said.

“I am.”

“Do not.”

He looked at her, smiling. “Why not?”

“Because you have already done the hard part.” She reached for his hand. “You came home.”

He exhaled slowly, the truth of it filling him like fire kindling after a long frost.

“I did.”

Frances leaned into his side. “So now, you need only enjoy it.”

And he would.

He would wake beside her. Walk these halls not as a ghost of duty but as a man fully alive. He would leave kisses in every room, laughter in every hall, and build something lasting—not just for himself, but for the family they would one day raise.

Johnathan Seton, the Duke of Hargate, had stepped fully from the shadow of the man he once was.

He belonged to the future they were creating.

And as the stars shone above them, he whispered softly, for her ears alone, “I am eager for forever.”

Frances brushed her thumb over the back of his hand, her grip steady and warm.

“Good,” she said. “Because you are stuck with me.”

He smiled.

“Then I am exactly where I’m meant to be.”

With the heavens above them, and the path forward unwritten, they stood together in the quiet certainty of a love that defied every obstacle.

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