Page 14 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE DRAWING ROOM of White’s hummed with chatter, as Hugh nursed his second glass of brandy. The afternoon sun filtered through the club’s famed bow-window, casting a warm glow on the members celebrating the narrow passage of Thorncastle’s abolition bill. Hugh was present only in body, for his mind insisted on repeatedly wandering back to the night before—to Anna.

"To progress," the Duke of Thorncastle, seated opposite him, interrupted his reverie with another toast to their success. As the bill’s passage had come down to just two votes, Thorncastle was rather elated—and already a little inebriated.

"And to Graystone,” Hugh added, for word had broken that morning that the duke had finally succumbed to his injuries.

The two men clinked glasses, downing the amber liquid within with appropriate gravitas for their fallen peer.

“Do you know,” Thorncastle leaned in, his voice lowered. “The more that I think on it, the more suspicious I become of how Graystone met his end.”

“Then try not to think on it,” Hugh advised, his voice a warning. It would not do for their friend Lord Nathan Lewisham—the newly minted Duke of Graystone—to be plagued by rumours about his brother’s death, upon his return to England. Grieving a brother was difficult enough without that, as Hugh well knew.

“He was a ruddy fine whip,” Thorncastle mused, the alcohol buffering his ego from the harshness of Hugh’s reply. “It makes no sense to me.”

“Who would have cause to want Graystone dead?” Hugh countered, “The only person set to benefit is Nate, and—apart from being away on the continent fighting a war—he did not want the title.”

“It’s just odd,” Thorncastle surrendered, with a hopeless shrug. “That’s all. If Nate wasn’t to inherit, then I would suspect the young Lord Lewisham had a hand in the accident. There’s something unlikable about the lad.”

“It might be the company he keeps,” Hugh scowled, recalling Lewisham’s connection to Lord Gravesend.

“Look at us, two old men, disapproving of the younger set,” Thorncastle laughed, as he signalled for the footman to top-up their glasses. “We have both been domesticated, old friend.”

“I didn’t want to say, but now that you mention it, you have gone a little soft around the middle since you leg-shackled yourself,” Hugh quipped.

This was a lie; Thorncastle remained as fit and trim as ever. Though, something about him had fundamentally changed since he had married his duchess less than a month ago. The rakish edge that had defined him for years had mellowed into something Hugh couldn't quite name. Contentment, perhaps.

“They do say men fall into love and into fat at the same time,” Thorncastle was entirely nonplussed by Hugh’s ribbing—in fact, he looked rather pleased with himself.

Hugh blinked at the casual ease with which his old friend—who the ton had once dubbed The Devil of Thorncastle due to his rakish ways—mentioned the word love.

“How fares married life for you?” Thorncastle queried, perhaps sensing Hugh’s unease.

Hugh looked down at the glass, swirling the amber liquid inside thoughtfully.

“I would say it is not what I had anticipated, but that would make it sound like I put some thought into the act,” he confessed, ruefully.

“Yes, Bartie informed me that he was there when Cupid’s arrow struck,” Thorncastle raised his brows in amusement. “You did always like to act first and think later—even during our Eton days.”

“My wife is less impressed by my decisiveness,” Hugh returned his gaze to his glass, despondent.

“Marriage is a partnership,” Thorncastle advised, his tone gentle. “Decisions must be made together.”

“Even when I know best?” Hugh countered, a little indignant.

“Lud,” Thorncastle pressed a hand to his brow as though pained. “We will be burying another duke soon enough, if you attempt to tell your wife you know what’s best for her.”

“I merely worry about her safety and wellbeing,” Hugh groused—what was wrong with a husband wishing to protect his wife?

“Then tell her that, that at least sounds romantic,” Thorncastle cast him a look of half-despair, though his expression softened as he took in Hugh’s irritable state.

“Love does funny things to a man,” he noted. Then he raised his glass in toast, his eyes dancing with devilment.

“You should spend less time with your cousin,” Hugh retorted, pushing back his chair to leave. “Bartie is filling your head with romantic tosh. Enjoy the rest of the brandy, Thorncastle.”

With a stiff nod, Hugh left his—highly amused—friend to finish the decanter alone. He swept from the club to his carriage, instructing his driver to take him home.

Inside Falconbridge House, Hugh was greeted by bustling activity and noise, instead of its usual austere silence.

One of the maids hurried past, bearing a vase of fresh flowers, followed by another maid headed in the opposite direction, also bearing a floral arrangement.

“Reeves,” Hugh called in a slight panicked voice, as he spotted the underbutler descending the stairs, bearing a painting in a gilt frame. “Has someone died?”

“No one is dead, Your Grace,” Reeves answered breathlessly, as he reached the bottom step. “It’s just Her Grace rearranging a few things around the house. She asked us to move some of the paintings.”

Hugh raised his brows in disbelief; what was wrong with the paintings? The walls had always been adorned with depictions of horses, ships, hunting scenes, and naval battles—respectable, expensive, and masculine paintings. He had never given them a second thought; they were simply there.

Like a lightskirt to a redcoat, Hugh followed the sound of Anna’s lilting voice to the parlour room. He paused at the threshold of the door, watching unseen as his wife directed two footmen on the placement of a landscape where a particularly gruesome depiction of the Battle of Blenheim had once hung.

She was radiant; her cheeks pink from exertion, her hair escaping its pins as she gestured animatedly. She looked so at home in this space that Hugh felt almost like an interloper. Sensing his gaze, she turned, her blue eyes wary.

“It looks well,” Hugh offered, gesturing to the new painting.

“I decided to make a few changes,” she replied, tilting her chin defiantly, as though she expected an argument.

The two footmen departed swiftly, anticipating an awkward exchange. Guilt prickled Hugh’s conscience; did she expect to battle with him at every turn? Did she think that he was so controlling that he would argue with her over a few aesthetic changes?

He glanced around the room, his eyes taking in the few new feminine touches she had added. New cushions adorned the couches, a pile of periodicals and books rested on the end table, a basket of sewing sat on the Queen Anne chair beside the fireplace; the long disused parlour now looked homely.

“It looks much better,” Hugh said firmly, before adding. “Not to say that you need my approval to make changes. This is your home after all.”

She nodded in agreement, her eyes finally meeting his.

“I would like it to feel more like home,” she said, her simple statement sounding to Hugh’s ear rather loaded.

“I would like you to feel more at home,” he replied, clearing his throat awkwardly. Dash it, why was it so difficult to put into words what he wanted to say?

His gaze travelled from the cheerful landscape to the pianofort, atop which sat a fresh vase of flowers. He frowned then, as he noticed something was missing.

“The other portrait?” he questioned anxiously. He did not care a fig about the expensive Turner piece she had removed but the portrait of Jack was priceless—to him, at least.

“I thought it a shame to hide it away in a room you rarely visit,” she answered, her tone even but her words, once again, heavy with meaning. “I had it moved to the library.”

“Very good,” Hugh answered, his racing heart returning to a steadier rhythm now he knew that it had not been consigned to the kindling pile. He shifted a little, under her watchful gaze. She was waiting for him to tell her about Jack—heavens only knew why, for she had obviously unearthed the truth of the story herself.

Well, most of it. Only Hugh knew the true tale.

“Jack was my older brother,” Hugh said stiffly. His words sounded wooden, though he reasoned that was because he’d not had much practice saying those words over the last decade. Jack. Brother. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d said that in a sentence to anyone.

“He died many years ago,” he finished, feeling rather silly for stating what was blatantly obvious. If Jack had not died, Hugh would not be standing before her as the Duke of Falconbridge.

“You don’t like to talk about him.”

Her soft words were delivered not as a question but as a statement. Nervously, Hugh lifted his eyes to meet hers and found they were brimming with warmth and understanding. He suddenly yearned for her comforting touch—longed to hold her close, bury his head in her hair and whisper the heavy secret he had carried for so long.

"No," he said, after a heavy pause. "No, I think I should like very much to speak of him. Just, perhaps not all at once."

He prayed silently that she would take the hint, for his throat felt tight and if he wasn’t two-and-thirty years of age and holder of one of England’s most powerful titles, he could have sworn that he might cry.

"Of course," Anna said, her voice gentle as she took a step toward him. "I will not force you. Only when you are ready.”

Hugh inclined his head graciously, unable to voice a reply to her kind offer. Inwardly he wanted to laugh aloud at his pompous declaration to Thorncastle, that he knew what was best for his wife. Anna was omnipotent; in less than a week of married life, she had unearthed his deepest wound and gently forced him to confront it.

Anna moved closer still, until she stood just before him, her face upturned to his. She rose onto her tiptoes, one small hand coming to rest upon his chest.

“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered, before placing a kiss upon his lips.

Hugh stilled, shocked that his vulnerability had not pushed her away but had drawn her to him. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, a peace offering of sorts. Anna’s fingertips pressed against his waistcoat, and Hugh felt the warmth of her touch even through the layers of fabric.

Something broke loose within him; passion mixed with the heady relief of baring his pain to another. Of showing someone a portion of his battered soul and finding not revulsion, but compassion. His arms encircled her waist, drawing her closer as the kiss deepened. She responded eagerly, her arms encircling his neck, her passion matching his.

A low sound escaped Hugh’s throat as he gently pushed her backward, until her shoulders met the wall beside the newly hung landscape. His body pressed against hers, propriety forgotten as desire overwhelmed him. His hands roved her body, caressing her curves beneath the fabric of her dress.

He longed to possess her completely; to feel himself inside her. He wanted, he realised with shock, to join their two bodies as one.

“Anna,” he groaned, as her fingers tangled in his hair.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his lips, unaware that she was in grave danger of ceding her virginity to him, upright against a wall, like a common tavern wench.

He pulled back slightly, breathing hard. Her eyes were dazed, her lips reddened from his kisses, her hair half-undone around her flushed face.

"We shouldn't," he managed, even as his aching cock protested his words. "Not here."

A sharp knock at the door confirmed his suspicions that the parlour-room was not the correct venue in which to finally consummate their marriage. They sprang apart, Anna smoothing her hair as Hugh adjusted his cravat.

"Yes?" Hugh called, his voice rough.

The door remained closed as Reeves spoke from the other side.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the Dowager Duchess has arrived and requests an immediate audience."

Hugh shot Anna a look of mingled frustration and amusement.

"My mother’s timing is impeccable," he murmured, as he assisted her with fixing her rumpled dress. He smoothed his own hair, straightened his coat, and braced himself for Edwina’s arrival.

His mother appeared a few minutes later, her eyes wide as she took in the changes to the parlour room.

“Redecorating?” she queried, her eyes swiveling between the two.

“Just adding a few touches,” Anna answered, waving an airy arm around the room. “To make the place feel more homely.”

Edwina nodded her approval, her gaze taking in every new feminine addition to the room.

“Very good,” she smiled, as she took a seat on the sofa. “Start downstairs first, then tackle the upstairs rooms. There is a bedchamber just off the ducal suite which would be perfect as a nursery.”

Hugh stifled a smile as he watched Anna’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. His mother was not known for great tact or diplomacy when it came to pushing her personal agenda.

“I believe that is my cue to leave,” Hugh decided, meeting Anna’s look of outrage with a sweet smile. “I know when my opinion is not required.”

“He’d have every room decorated with naval vessels if he had his way,” Edwina concurred to Anna, her expression one of vague horror. “Men; if it’s not ships, it’s carriages.”

“We are a simple species,” Hugh agreed solemnly. He humoured his mother only slightly, for the mention of nurseries had put the image of Anna increasing with his child into mind. He felt a sudden stab of primitive desire at the very idea, and could only conclude that men truly were of an antediluvian disposition as compared to the fairer sex.

Hugh gently excused himself to retire to his library but once outside the confines of the parlour room, he changed his mind on his destination. He called for his carriage to take him to Pickering Place and a half-hour later, he found himself seated in Daniel Shatter’s office.

It was a room he knew well. It was the room he had sat in a week after Jack’s funeral and learned that his brother owed a small fortune in gambling debts. Shatter had offered—rather magnanimously—to purchase all Jack’s vowels, if Hugh swore to repay them in time. With some interest, of course.

It had taken Hugh a year to repay the loan; a year of righting neglected estates, investing profits in merchant activity, and winning handsomely at the card tables.

Hugh had never asked why Shatter had offered to help him. Perhaps he had recognised Hugh’s tenancy to win. Perhaps he had calculated the benefit of having a duke in his debt. Perhaps he had guessed just how Jack’s life had ended, and had felt a modicum of pity for Hugh.

Hugh never asked and Shatter would never tell, and because of that a grudging respect of sorts had grown between the two men. Not friendship—Daniel Shatter did not keep friends—but an acknowledgment of sorts that they were equals.

“A drink, your Grace?” Shatter asked, gesturing to his well-stocked drinks cabinet.

“Not this evening,” Hugh declined, “I merely wished to enquire after our mutual friend. He has not appeared since we last spoke.”

Shatter shrugged his broad shoulders to indicate that he too knew nothing of Lord Mosely’s current whereabouts.

“I can’t tell you where Lord Mosley is, your Grace,” he finally answered with a sigh. “But I can tell you where he isn’t. He’s not in any gaming hells around the city, he’s not running up anymore debts. Perhaps he’s learned his lesson and returned home to lick his wounds?”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” Hugh prayed aloud, to which shatter raised two dark brows in amusement.

“Chance and I are on intimate terms, your Grace; you’ll forgive me if I don’t wager on Mosley having reformed.” Shatter replied dryly, before returning his gaze to the ledgers strewn across the table.

Presuming himself dismissed, Hugh departed for home, fully intending—despite Shatter’s cynicism—to send a footman to Whitby in search of Lord Mosley. Strangers things had happened than a lost cause reforming, he thought with a wry grin.