Page 14 of Secrets of a Duke’s Heart (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #25)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

J ude bolted down the drive. His arms pumped frantically and his feet propelled him forward at a pace he hadn’t attempted in at least a decade.

Harriet had sprung Rémy not half an hour ago. They’d left on foot, headed for the village, taking nothing but the clothes on their backs. The harsh words he’d spoken to Clarissa for her role in their escape chased him down the empty road.

I know what is best for my niece. You do not. How dare you let them go?

Miss Penfirth regarded him with calm sadness. It was Harriet’s decision to make.

He’d roared, a wordless cry of pure fury, and dashed out into the night in pursuit of the wayward lovers.

The bright moon glared down at him, hung low in the clear night sky.

“I’ll strangle that French bastard with my bare hands,” he panted. The road sloped toward the village. He skidded around a curve and stopped short at the sight of a gleaming black coach stuck sideways in the road. Four horses were pulling in every direction but forward, hemmed in by a stone wall on one side and a deep ditch on the other. The crest painted on the door was familiar, as was the gray-headed old man hanging out the window, shouting at his beleaguered driver.

Old.

To Jude’s eyes, the man had possessed a fatherly air. He was trustworthy. Respectable.

Now, looking at him through Harriet’s lens, he realized two things: first, that the man he’d selected for his beloved niece’s husband was nearly three times her age, and the reason he hadn’t seen it sooner was that he was getting up in age himself.

Forty this summer.

His slowing pulse was a reminder that he was still in good shape for thirty-nine, no matter how much he was feeling his own mortality.

“Is that you, Montague?” the earl called out querulously. “I just saw your niece and a young man running toward the town. She said the wedding was off!”

He was about to apologize for dragging the man all this way when Lucarran climbed out and smacked one horse on the rump. It startled, lurched forward and almost overturned the entire coach, to the driver’s consternation. Jude leaped in to help guide the horses out of the predicament they’d gotten into.

“Get in, lad. I have a bride to catch. I cannot allow her to slip through my fingers. The dowry is sufficient, but comely, obedient young ladies don’t grow on trees. Harriet is ripe for the plucking.” He grinned lasciviously and motioned for Jude to get into the carriage.

Lord Lucarran’s rudeness was surpassed by his rank breath. Had the man never heard of tooth powder and daily brushing before? The way he was speaking about Harriet made Jude’s skin crawl.

If he had made such an error of judgment in betrothing the girl he’d raised like his own daughter to this—this disgusting pig of the realm, what else had he gotten so badly wrong?

Clarissa.

He should have trusted her not to be so venal as the women he had spent all of his adult life avoiding. He should have known that marrying for money alone was a recipe for an impoverished life indeed. Without affection, money was worth nothing.

All this time, he had been blind.

He was in love with Clarissa Penfirth.

Madly. Wholly. After only a few days of acquaintance, he had lost his heart to her.

He would go back to Prescott’s and sort things out with her the minute this escapade was over.

“Women,” huffed Lucarran. “Always thinking with their hearts and not with their heads. You’d better be right that she remains untouched. I won’t raise a cuckoo’s chick. Not in my nest.” He clucked his tongue. “Any brat resulting from this alleged kidnapping will be sent away.”

Cold horror coursed down Jude’s spine. That was precisely what his family had done to Harriet when she was a baby.

History was repeating itself, despite his best efforts to steer his family onto a safer course.

The horses clattered into the courtyard where white feathers danced in the air, a clear sign of a recent disturbance. White birds hissed and honked warning. Harriet stood framed in the light spilling into the yard from the Cock and Bull Inn.

Why had they come back here?

There was no time for questions. Harriet and her roguish Frenchman ran into the taproom. The Riders had gathered here for a celebratory pint, and the none-too-sober men tripped over one another trying to chase their quarry.

Harriet and Rémy ran to the back, past the alcove with the secret passageway, into a closet. Jude followed them.

At the back of the closet was a second passageway.

“Clever misdirection,” he said.

“After them! We cannot let Le Fant?me escape!” shouted a ruddy-faced Leacham. Down they went, following the fresh sea air blowing in from the caves below. He wasn’t sure what he would do when they spilled onto the lip of the cave where he had spent a couple of hours getting to know Miss Penfirth.

If Harriet felt a fraction of what he did for Clarissa toward her French smuggler, then Jude had no business trying to stop them.

Fortunately, the runaway couple had a friend. Benoit, the dark-skinned American man whose home they had attempted to search, grinned widely as he pushed the boat toward the mouth of the cave with a long pole.

He gave a salute. Leacham reached for his pistol.

Jude put one hand on his back and sent the Rider tumbling into the shallow water before he could take aim.

“Godspeed,” he called to his niece, but they were already gone.

* * *

Jude tried to calm the raging Lucarran during the ride back to Prescott’s estate, to no avail. The old codger railed against faithless women in general and Harriet in particular. By the time the tired horses dragged the coach up the sloping drive, he had given up hope of trying to soothe the jilted groom and sagged against the squabs with his eyes closed, contemplating his more immediate problem.

How would he make things right with Clarissa?

She was waiting for them when they strode in, her eyes brimming with reproach. She hung back while Prescott conferred with Lucarran and ushered him into his study for a fortifying drink.

He found her waiting for him on the stairway landing. She was sitting on the steps, reading. Calm. Jude sat beside her.

“Did they get away?”

“Yes. With a little help from yours truly.” He smiled at the memory.

“I was afraid of what you’d do, after the way you tore out of here.” Carefully she placed her bookmark between the pages and closed her book. “I wish them every happiness.”

“Do you think it will work out for them?”

“I suppose they have as good a chance as anyone does. It is a gamble, isn’t it? Marriage.”

Disquiet filled his belly. “Is that a segue into asking whether I still want to marry you, Clarissa?”

“No.” She rose fluidly. Posed with her hand on the railing, she regarded him with somber seriousness. “I see now why you concealed your identity from me. People do treat you differently once they know you’re a wealthy and powerful peer of the realm. It changed how I see you.”

She hugged her book to her breast with one arm and broke eye contact, looking everywhere except at him as she delivered the coup de grace.

“When you were ordinary Mr. Montague, I enjoyed spending time with you. But now that I know what marriage to you would entail, I cannot forgive you for failing to tell me sooner. I let myself fall for you, hoping that I had finally met a man who appreciated me for the pleasure of my company. After seeing your reaction to Harriet’s choice of husband, I know now that I was an unsuspecting fool.”

He caught her hand to prevent her from sweeping past him up the stairs. “How so?”

“For you, marriage is transactional. Affection is a luxury. I cannot live that way, Jude. I told myself that if you let her go, it would mean that you had changed. Instead, you ran after her, determined to impose your will. Even if you did the right thing at the last minute, how do I know that you wouldn’t attempt to assert your will over me? Even if you were granted permission to marry a woman so far beneath your station, I would be stupid to consign myself to a lifetime of unhappiness.”

Heavy silence filled the room.

“I do respect you. Your intelligence. Your warm heart. You aren’t a rash young girl.” Tell her you love her, you fool. But the words would not come out. He was too devastated by her rejection to risk his heart now. He would keep this secret to his grave.

“Neither is Harriet.”

“I thought of her as a daughter. I don’t think of you the same way at all.”

She scoffed. “I should hope not.”

“Promise me that if there is a child you will reconsider.”

“In that case, I shall have no choice but to inform you. I do not believe in keeping children from knowing their own fathers.”

Relief coursed down him.

“One last kiss,” he pleaded. “To say goodbye.”

After a beat of hesitation, she nodded.

Gently, he cupped her face. Stroked her soft skin. Inhaled her scent before bending to taste her lips one last time. He could attempt to argue, but that would only make his stubborn Miss Penfirth dig in her heels more. He had an opening. He would pray with all his heart that his seed had taken root and she would be compelled to join him at the altar. For him, nothing had changed.

Either she would be his wife, or no one.

He poured all the emotions he couldn’t express into their kiss. He tasted her longing. Her regret. When they finally broke for breath, her resolve lingered on his tongue.

“Write to me,” he said, his voice rough with regret.

“I will.” She squeezed his fingers and let go.