Page 25 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

J on stalked Hyde Park like a man bent on a mission. Except he had no mission anymore. He’d done his best to find out who’d told the press about the dowry yet had learned nothing of substance. He’d decided he should do his penance with Tory, but instead had discovered she loved him.

Loved him! Was the woman daft? It would have made sense if she’d wanted to marry him to save her brother or to become a duchess or even to experience more of the sensual delights they’d been so eagerly tasting. Any of those would have seemed perfectly rational to him.

But to want to marry for love? That wasn’t rational in the least.

He didn’t deserve her, as she would find out eventually. He’d practically killed her father, which she would finally realize one day. And he’d intended to be ready for when that happened by protecting his heart.

She didn’t want him protecting his heart, apparently. She wanted him throwing it wholeheartedly into the air and hoping she caught it and didn’t let it crash to the ground.

But you can’t trust me, can you? she’d said.

No, he couldn’t. How could he? He’d spent nearly half his life in a place where no one could be trusted. He’d cultivated only a few trustworthy friends, and Morris had seriously shaken that trust. Although Jon had to admit—when it came to Morris and Mademoiselle Bernard, Scovell and Heathbrook were nearly in accord with Tory.

What if he was wrong about Morris? What if Heathbrook was right that Mademoiselle had done nothing to betray them? What if he was throwing Tory away out of some fit of pique simply because she wouldn’t agree with him?

No, surely he wasn’t that petty. Not after everything that had happened between them. He had good reason for his suspicions. He was in the right, and she was expecting too much.

What about love? Does that play no part in your plans? . . . I love you . . . And loving you means . . . I want a real marriage, not one chosen out of your guilt or my need for Cyril to be cared for. I want a husband who’s marrying me because he loves me, too.

She loved him. Ergo, the woman was indeed daft.

But if he believed that, then he’d have to throw away everything she’d said about absolving him of his guilt. And he didn’t want to.

His eyes watered, and he gritted his teeth. He’d been living with that guilt all this time. He could continue to do so. Indeed, the fact that she only wanted him if he loved her was clear evidence that she secretly wanted him to keep living with that guilt. Right? Right?

He quickened his pace. This was insanity. She didn’t want him because he wouldn’t dance to her tune, and he was never dancing to anyone else’s tune again. Not in this lifetime.

But over the next week, he found himself continuing to replay their conversation, sometimes agreeing with her, sometimes reinforcing his own feelings. At least when she’d been in the house, he’d been able to look forward to seeing her at breakfast or dinner, to perhaps passing her in the hall.

Not now. She was truly gone. Meals were . . . dull. Chloe was subdued, making him wonder if she still saw Tory and just wasn’t saying anything about it. His mother tried to pretend nothing had happened, especially after the gossip rag printed the retraction he’d demanded.

He didn’t get a damned thing done. He tried, but mostly he read and reread the same words and numbers over and over until he gave up on that and finally just went to bed. Alone. The state where he belonged, apparently.

The nights were pure misery.

Tonight he was suffering another one, his longing for Tory an ache in his chest that never seemed to go away. They’d never spent one minute in his bedchamber, yet he could imagine her here as clearly as if they had.

She would join him in bed, wearing only the nightdress she’d worn in her little cottage. She would make him forget Bitche prison when he roused in the night. She would banish those memories of Morris at the end, when he was suffering.

She would hold him close and soothe his sore heart . . .

God, she had him thinking of hearts again. Another week without her, and he’d be giving his heart to her freely.

Would that be so bad? She would marry him if he did. That’s all he wanted, wasn’t it? Tory in his bed at night? In his days of restoring the dukedom to its former glory? In his life?

Life without her had hardly been worth living so far.

He’d thought she might come to him after she realized what a mistake she’d made, but she would never do that, would she? Not the principled Tory he knew, who loved with her whole heart and would never take a marriage by half measures.

The same principled woman who’d gone out of her way to find work for Beasley. Who’d been willing to fight tooth and nail to protect her little brother from anyone who might not love him as fiercely as she did. Whose heart had gone out to him and his friends simply because of what they’d suffered in France.

Who’d absolved him of his guilt over her father’s death with such sweetness and love.

Yes, love. That was love.

And he’d foolishly driven her away. Surely, he could still fix things, still get her back. Somehow.

Yes, he told himself. That was what he had to do. Get her back. Only after resolving to do that did he finally drift off to sleep.

But the next morning, he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Would she even see him? She hadn’t said a word to him in a week. What if she’d taken another post or . . . or had been thrown out of her cottage since she couldn’t pay the lease?

It was in that moment of panic that Kershaw announced he had a visitor. The most unlikely of visitors, really.

Mademoiselle Bernard herself.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon growled, “Show her in.”

Then he rose to pour himself a whisky, noticing that his hand shook as he did so. The woman could very well be Morris’s mistress . . . or worse, their betrayer. He had to be careful with what he said. But he meant to determine the truth once and for all.

To protect Tory.

“Lord Jonathan . . . I-I mean, Your Grace,” spoke a crisp voice that had less of a French accent than he remembered. “How kind of you to meet with me. I know you must be very busy these days.”

He turned to see the woman he’d remembered as being extraordinarily beautiful, only to realize she couldn’t hold a candle to Tory.

Oh, she was pretty enough. But she was taller and slenderer than Tory. Her hair was the color of mahogany, not the golden oak of Tory’s. And her complexion was more ivory than Tory’s alabaster. They did have oddly similar crystalline blue eyes, but beyond that, there was no comparison. Not for him. Tory’s looks outshone hers as far as he was concerned.

Suddenly, he realized he was standing there studying her instead of asking the questions he was burning to know the answers to.

He would start with an easy one. “Although it’s good to see you again, mademoiselle, I confess I’m curious to know—why are you here?”

She smiled at him. “Forgive me for any intrusion, Your Grace, but I was merely hoping to gain an address for Monsieur Morris’s daughter. Mr. Beasley told me you might be able to give me one.”

Jon stared at her, shaken. “Why do you wish to know her address, if I may ask?” When she blinked at that, he added, “She worked for my family until recently, so we feel a vested interest in her welfare.”

She looked as if he’d taken her off guard. “You see, sir . . . That is . . .” She steadied her shoulders. “I have a journal and some letters for her from her father. The last time I saw him, shortly before your attempt to . . . um . . . leave Verdun, he entrusted them to me to pass on to his family in case he never returned.”

Her chin quivered. “I only recently learned of his death from Mr. Beasley, who also told me that Madame Morris died some years ago as well. Mr. Beasley says Mademoiselle Morris is alone in the world now. So of course I wish to give her these letters as soon as possible.”

“I could pass them on to her for you,” Jon said, still wary. What if the young woman meant to tell Tory of her illicit connection to Morris?

But Mademoiselle Bernard merely looked regretful, not devious. Indeed, the picture of the scheming Frenchwoman he’d built her up to be in his memory bore no resemblance to the anxious lady before him.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said, “but I promised Monsieur Morris I would place them into her hands myself. I-I came a long way to do so. If you could but direct me where to go, I would be most grateful.”

And just like that, Jon realized Tory had been right. He’d had no real reason to believe Mademoiselle Bernard was Morris’s mistress. Jon’s desire to unveil their betrayer had somehow become twisted up with the friendship between Morris and the Frenchwoman, whom the man had never spoken of with anything but the utmost respect.

Tory had been right about something else, too. He should have trusted Tory. She might not have seen her father for years, but she’d seen him with her mother, which Jon never had. And she had good instincts about people.

About him . She’d believed in his worth when he couldn’t even believe in it himself. The least he could do was believe in her, too . . . trust her, too.

“I tell you what,” Jon said, putting down his whisky glass. “It will be best if I take you there. It’s not far. We can walk it easily.”

“Oh, I would not wish to inconvenience you, sir,” she said with consternation in her expression.

“It’s no inconvenience.” And he was going regardless of what she thought, partly because he still wanted to be there for Tory for whatever the letters said. And partly because he might perish if he didn’t see her right now and tell her what was in his heart.

In his heart?

God, he loved her, didn’t he? He’d tried so hard to protect himself from it because he’d known it could bloody well hurt when the person he loved was taken away from him.

No, was driven away from him by his idiotic pride . Well, forget pride. He loved her. Was in love with her. He would get her back, regardless of what it took.

Because what good was being a duke and having all this power and property and wealth if he couldn’t have the woman he loved?