Page 12 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE EVENING WAS not unfolding the way that Hugh had envisioned. He had returned home from The House of Lords late, his mind still filled with debates over abolition laws, only to learn that his wife had taken it upon herself to walk unescorted through Green Park.

"Alone, Thompson? They let her go alone?" Hugh's voice had risen sharply, and his valet had taken a step back.

"With her lady's maid, your Grace." Thompson had corrected carefully before defending his fellow staff. "Her Grace was insistent, despite their protests. They could have kept this from you, but believed that you would prefer to know."

“Offer them my thanks,” Hugh replied, with a curt nod.

He did not want Anna to think he was her jailer, but he could not ignore her reckless disregard for her own safety. London was not Whitby; danger lurked at every corner, especially for women.

When she arrived for dinner, Anna appeared far from contrite. She wore a splendid ruby gown that matched the fire in her eyes, her chin lifted in defiance before he’d even spoken a word.

"My dear," he said stiffly, standing as she entered the room.

He walked to meet her at the doorway, offering her his arm. Her grip was so light that he barely felt it, her gaze fixed straight ahead as if she were walking to an execution rather than dinner with her husband.

Hugh stifled a sigh of irritation—she could not be vexed with him already; he had only spoken two words.

He pulled out a chair for her to sit on and, once she was comfortable, he took his own seat.

"I have it on good authority that you decided to promenade around Green Park with only Josephine for company," Hugh stated, once the footmen had poured the wine and withdrawn to fetch the first course. “London is not safe for—"

"And I have it on good authority that my father is still missing," Anna interrupted, her voice brittle as she finally turned her blue gaze his way. "A fact that you felt needed to be kept from me."

Hugh stilled, his wine glass halfway to his lips. The accusation in her eyes was genuine, but beneath it lay something he recognized all too well—fear. Thanks to Jack, he knew well what it felt like to imagine the worst when a loved one disappeared.

"Did you know?” she questioned, her voice shaking slightly as her composure cracked. “Were you aware that he has not been seen since—"

She faltered, unable to directly reference the card game that had thrust them together.

"Since the night he lost you in a game of chance," Hugh finished for her, setting down his glass with deliberate care. He would not gild the lily and pretend her father an honourable man, even if he was missing.

"If you want the truth of the matter," Hugh began, spreading his hands in surrender, "I have not spared your father a second thought since the wedding. I had arranged with the proprietor of one of town’s more salubrious gaming hells to alert me when he resurfaced."

"And you did not worry when you heard nothing?"

Anna’s accusatory and somewhat frightened glare stopped the wicked reply at the tip of Hugh’s tongue. He wanted to snap that he did not think Lord Mosley deserved anyone’s worry—especially not that of his daughter—but now was not the time to divulge that.

"He slipped my mind,” he replied carefully. “Now I am aware that he has not returned, I shall endeavour to pour all my resources into locating him.”

The footmen returned with the soup course, forcing a pause in their conversation. Hugh watched Anna's face in the candlelight. There was anger there, but beneath it lay fear, and worry for her father that Hugh both understood and resented. He knew the feeling all too well—it was not easy to let go of worrying about a loved one, even when they had hurt you.

When they were alone again, Hugh leaned forward, seeking to offer assurance even as his own old ghosts pressed close.

"He will be found," he promised, his voice gruff. "You have my word.”

"And you will keep me informed of the search?" Anna prodded, not quite trusting him.

"I will not keep anything from you,” Hugh swore. "But in return, I ask that you not venture out alone again. I should not like to have to search for two people in the slums of St Giles; one is quite enough."

Something in his tone must have conveyed his sincerity, for she offered him a wan smile before turning her attention to her soup. They both ate in strained silence for a moment or two until his wife offered him an olive branch.

"How was your day at Lords?" she ventured, tilting her head like a curious bird.

Hugh almost snorted with laughter at the staid domesticity of her question. Had anyone walked in just then, they would have assumed them married for decades rather than forced together by Hugh’s desire and a deck of cards.

“Productive but dreadfully dull. I don’t think you want to hear about the slow turning cogs of The House of Lords.”

“Try me,” she suggested lightly. “If I fall asleep in my soup, you’ll know it’s time to change the topic.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he cautioned, before gingerly beginning the tale of the member’s bill he had helped sponsor that day.

"I’m supporting the Duke of Thorncastle’s efforts to strengthen the abolition laws. The bill proposes harsher penalties for those caught trafficking human beings and additional funds for the West Africa Squadron to intercept slave ships."

Hugh paused, surprised by Anna's attentive expression. He had expected her eyes to glaze over, but she appeared interested. He had a momentary glimpse of what their marriage might have been like had they come together by choice—warm interest in the other’s day.

“I expect there was some argument against diverting funds away from the Navy?” she ventured, surprising him further with her political acumen.

“Yes, a few think that the government should not be distracted from the war effort,” Hugh conceded. “Though most were in support of funding the cause.”

“I should hope so,” she declared, setting down her spoon. “What point is there in having the might of the British Naval Fleet if it cannot be used to save those poor souls from their wretched fate?”

“Quite,” Hugh lifted his wine glass in toast to her statement.

As they continued to discuss the particulars of the member’s bill, he found himself unexpectedly savoring the moment. How long had it been since he'd shared the details of his day with anyone?

Since Jack’s death, he had wrapped his title around himself like armor, keeping even his closest acquaintances at a carefully measured distance. For years, he had haunted the same gaming hells that had destroyed his brother, drinking the same brandies, playing the same games, seeking some connection to the ghost of his brother.

Yet here, in this forced marriage born from those very cards that had destroyed Jack, he was finding what had eluded him in all those dark, desperate nights.

Connection to something real, something tangible.

Someone, he corrected himself. Someone living and not a ghost that haunted the darkness and shadows of the past.

Throughout the rest of the meal, he watched Anna surreptitiously, startled by the feeling of tenderness she evoked in him. Desire he understood—it was straightforward, uncomplicated, easily sated. But this gentle warmth spreading through his chest as she spoke was something altogether different—it felt almost dangerous.

When the last course had ended, he suggested they retreat to the parlour room—for, despite his apprehension of his own feelings, he did not want the warmth of the evening to fade.

The parlour was not a room Hugh frequented often. He was a little surprised to find it warm and cosy when they entered, a fire crackling gently in the hearth. The servants had evidently anticipated that it might get more use, now that the house had a mistress. A number of decanters sat untouched on the sideboard. Hugh poured two glasses—brandy for himself, a sherry for Anna—and handed hers over without a word.

She accepted it, the edge of her sleeve grazing his fingers. She wandered toward the pianoforte, trailing her hand along the back of a velvet chair as she passed.

"Do you play?" he asked, suddenly aware of how little he knew of her accomplishments. How little he knew of her, if he was honest.

"My mother taught me," Anna replied, her fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "She adored music. I am glad that she did not live to see the painoforte at Mosley Hall sold.”

Hugh leaned against the mantelpiece, watching how the firelight caught the gold undertones in her hair. She looked wistful, her gaze not truly on the painoforte, but staring back into the past.

"When did she pass?" he questioned, guessing that her mother’s passing had marked an end to any stability in Anna’s life.

"She died when I was fifteen," Anna said simply, finally pressing a key that rang out clearly in the quiet room. "Consumption. Father never quite recovered from her loss; he had always gambled, but he lost himself to it after we lost her."

Hugh nodded, understanding all too well how grief could drive a man to self-destruction. He had nearly followed that path himself.

"Would you play something?" he asked, suddenly aching to hear her play.

She nodded, settling onto the bench with an easy grace. Her fingers moved over the keys, tentative at first, then with growing confidence. The melody was sweet and wistful, not the showy piece a debutante might perform to attract suitors, but something nostalgic.

Hugh closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him.

"Is this meant to be you?" Anna's voice broke through his reverie. The music had stopped, and she had risen to examine a portrait that hung in the shadows near the window.

Hugh's heart clenched in his chest. He had forgotten it was there, hidden in the corner of a room he rarely entered. The portrait showed a young man with Hugh's same dark hair and strong jaw, but with laughing eyes that held none of Hugh's guardedness.

"It is not a good likeness," she commented, studying the painting. "Something is off ..."

Something lodged in Hugh's throat; he should correct her, should tell her that she was looking at Jack, not him. He wanted to tell her that his brother had been the charming one, the one with an easy laugh and a ready smile. He wanted to tell her how much he paled in comparison to the big brother he had lost.

But the words wouldn't come. He had banished Jack’s ghost earlier, he did not have the strength to resurrect him so soon.

"It was painted some time ago," Hugh said instead, his voice rougher than he had intended.

Anna tilted her head, studying first the portrait and then Hugh's face. Something in her expression suggested she sensed the lie, but she didn't press.

Hugh met her gaze, struck by the gentle understanding in her eyes. He had the unsettling sensation that she could see straight through his carefully constructed facade to the lost, angry boy beneath—the one who had raged at Jack for leaving him alone, for taking the easy way out and saddling him with a title he'd never wanted and responsibilities he'd never sought.

"More sherry?" he offered abruptly, desperate to break the moment of unexpected intimacy.

"No, thank you," she said, returning to the pianoforte. "I should retire soon. Tomorrow, I would like to begin making inquiries of my own about my father. And we have the Lavery’s ball; your mother sent a missive to remind me."

Hugh nodded, watching as her fingers found the keys again, resuming the gentle melody. The tenderness he had felt at dinner returned, stronger now, mingled with a fierce protectiveness that surprised him with its intensity. He wanted this always; this soft, gentle, easy company—this feeling of togetherness, that made him realise just how alone he had been until now.

Once he had finished his brandy, she stopped playing, declaring herself ready for bed. Yesterday, Hugh might have made an innuendo, or a bawdy comment, about following her upstairs, but tonight he did not wish to sully their evening.

Instead, he stood and grabbed Anna’s hand before she left, placing a kiss on the back of it.

“Sleep well,” he bid, unable to put into words all that he wanted to say.

If she was startled by the intensity of his voice, she did not show it. She merely inclined her head graciously and bid him his own restful night.

Once the door had shut behind her, Hugh poured himself another brandy. The cosiness of the room had dissipated somewhat with Anna’s departure, so he moved himself to his library.

There, he attended to the growing pile of correspondence he had neglected since the wedding. He dashed out several letters to his various estate managers, a note to his man of business who kept an eye over his merchant interests, and finally an abrupt note to his solicitor at The Inns of Court, to say that his will needed updating. For a moment, he wondered if he should send a footman to The Bird’s Nest to question if Shatter had heard news on Lord Mosley, but he decided against it—that task was better carried out in person.

The longcase clock in the hallway began to chime the hour: midnight. Hugh stretched, allowing himself to succumb to his tiredness.

He blew out the candles, placed a guard before the fire, then set off for his bedchamber. There, he dismissed a groggy Thompson and undressed himself for bed.

Impatiently he donned a nightshirt, over which he threw on a silk banyan. Then, he crept to the door that joined his room to Anna’s, opening it as quietly as he could.

He slipped inside, intending only to check if she was sleeping, but when he caught sight of her, curled up beneath the covers, he paused, overcome with longing.

Longing not for her body—though he couldn’t deny that desire stirred in his belly—but for the warmth and peace she radiated. He discarded his earlier intention to steal a glance at her and leave, and instead made for the bed. Carefully, he lowered himself down beside her, throwing a protective arm over her body, as he settled himself on his side.

I’ll just rest a moment, he told himself, as his eyes grew heavy. Within seconds he was asleep, lulled into a peaceful rest by the warmth and comfort of his wife’s body beside him.