Page 13 of The Duke’s Guide to Fake Courtship (Daring Debutantes #1)

G race climbed into the carriage feeling acutely uncomfortable. She knew she ought to feel afraid, or even horrified by the Duke’s outburst. Instead, she felt unaccountably attracted to him.

She understood violence. Indeed, aboard ship she’d seen a great deal of things that had rightly terrified her. Now she had seen the Duke’s fighting skill, and his rage, and she knew how dangerous that was. She never, ever wanted to see such things again.

But for the first time in her life such rage had been focused in her defence. Moreover, the Duke had given warnings to his cousin. He had told him what to do in no uncertain terms. It was Lord Domac’s idiocy that he had not recognised the signs and heeded them. In truth, some demon inside Cedric had goaded the Duke into the attack. Who was so stupid as to taunt an enraged beast?

That was Lord Domac’s error. Hers was to look at the Duke and see a man, not an animal. She knew from experience that a man who sank into rages was a beast in a man’s clothing. He was unpredictable and dangerous. Her best bet was to stay as far away from him as possible.

But he had protected her.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t felt any danger. That she was perfectly capable of defending herself from Lord Domac. The Duke had seen the way she’d been manhandled by his cousin and had issued his warning. Twice.

That was the act of a man, not a beast. It was only the rage that had overcome him that had brought him low.

And the Duke did look low. She was already seated beside her father in his carriage when he shouldered his way into the vehicle. His jaw was tight, his shoulders hunched, and when he lifted his gaze to look at her she saw guilt, pain, and anger, all warring for pre-eminence. One of them would dominate, and that would tell her if she faced a man or beast. Unreasonable anger would end their association, no matter how handsome he appeared.

Pain at that thought cut sharp and deep, but she had long since hardened herself against pain.

Guilt, however, could not be pushed away. That was something she understood. She had only to look at her father’s kind face to feel her own twist of guilt. What was so special about her and Lucy that he had claimed them and not the others? A dozen other mixed-race children lived at the temple, but he had taken her and Lucy.

But she couldn’t think about that now. Instead, she studied the Duke as he settled into his seat and looked down at his clenched fists.

A moment later, the carriage started moving. It was not a long drive to her home, so they had little time. Unfortunately she had no understanding of what the English required in a situation like this. That was until her father started speaking.

‘What you have done has shamed us all,’ her father said, his tone hard.

The Duke’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘What I have done? It began when she purposely threw herself at me!’

Her father stiffened, nearly rising out of his seat. ‘How dare you say such a thing? My daughter is honest!’

Grace winced. It had been deliberate, just not by her hand.

She touched her father’s arm and looked the Duke in the eye. ‘The Duke is correct. The fall was on purpose.’

Her father twisted to stare at her. ‘You would not do such a thing,’ he stated flatly. ‘You have little interest in catching a man, even a duke. Why would you—’

‘Your sister did it, didn’t she?’

The Duke’s tone was defeated. She could see that he’d replayed the action in his mind and deduced the truth.

Grace nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘She knew your dress would rip. Why is it made so badly?’

She arched a brow at him, wondering if he would deduce that answer as well. A moment later, she saw him grimace.

‘Your modiste is terrible.’

‘What did you think of that bow, Your Grace?’ she asked.

‘It was hideous. You realised that and tore it off.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And there was no time to restitch it.’ He shook his head. ‘I shall have Lady Bowles take you to her modiste.’

Her father snorted. ‘That is all to the good, but what will we do now? You have ruined her reputation.’

‘I... I am not fit to marry,’ he said. ‘Not until I can control this.’ The Duke leaned back against the squabs, his expression completely defeated. ‘I am aware that this is not your daughter’s fault, but it is the truth nevertheless. I will not propose.’

Her heart sank, even as she completely agreed with him. ‘I cannot marry a man with no control,’ she said. She looked to her father, who was already shaking his head. ‘You know this to be true. I will not tie myself to a man who endangers me.’

She watched as her father pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy with the way this conversation was going.

Meanwhile, she looked to the Duke. ‘Can you explain yourself?’ she asked. She held up her arm. ‘You can see that I was not hurt.’

The Duke’s gaze rested hard on her skin. ‘He was gripping you tightly. I saw it. He could have hurt you.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But I do not bruise easily, and I have endured much worse.’

His tortured gaze went to hers. ‘I shudder to imagine what you have been through. It is not how a woman should be treated.’

She admired him for that statement. She knew he meant it. And so many men wouldn’t say it, much less mean it.

‘Why do you feel this so deeply?’

One thing about living among people who spoke a different language was that she’d become adept at reading their bodies and faces, despite their words. She watched as the Duke fought his own nature to hide from her question. She saw him try to gather his haughty air around him like a cloak, but then toss it aside with a clench of his jaw. He wanted to answer her as much as he wanted to hide from it. But in the end honesty won out and he faced her squarely.

‘You are too new to England to have heard of my family’s legacy. It’s what we receive with the Byrning title.’

Beside her, she felt her father stiffen.

‘Oh, dear...’ the man murmured.

‘You remember, then?’ the Duke asked.

‘As a boy at school.’ He shook his head. ‘Your father had a temper, but so did many other boys.’

‘So did my grandfather and his father. All the way back for hundreds of years.’ He looked directly at her. ‘We are not known as men who control our anger.’

‘Did your ancestors burn things?’

‘Whole villages of our enemies. It’s a bloody past, in a time when kings rewarded such viciousness.’

She watched him as he spoke. There was no pride in his tone.

‘Were your rages rewarded?’ she asked. ‘As a boy, were they encouraged?’

He shook his head. ‘Indulged is the better word. When I was a boy. But Mrs Wood—the gamekeeper’s wife—would not let me get away with them. She taught me that a man controls himself. A duke even more so.’

There was more to the tale. She could see it in the tense set of his shoulders and the way his gaze slid away whenever he tried to meet hers.

‘You became enraged when you thought I was in danger,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Were you hurt by your father as a boy?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Even at his worst, my father knew I was his heir. He did not touch me.’

‘Then someone else.’ It was not a question.

‘Many someone elses.’

This time his gaze went to the window, though she knew his thoughts were not on the view.

‘I had a sister...’ He swallowed. ‘She tried to defend her nanny from one of my father’s rages. She ran into his blow. He threw her against the wall. Her neck was broken.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘It was quick, at least. My father became a drunkard that night. He never raised his fist again—at least not with any power.’ He snorted. ‘He grew angry. He stormed and bellowed. But mostly he drank himself insensate. I think he was relieved when death finally came for him.’

He had told her some of this before, but now she understood it so much better. His family legacy was one of rage, but he was trying to fight it. And it was Lord Domac’s perversion to ignore it or perhaps to encourage the disaster.

‘You are the Duke now,’ her father intoned.

‘Yes.’

‘And you just beat your cousin in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.’

He paled, but didn’t disagree.

She didn’t say that he had done it in her defence, or that his obvious misery touched her deeply.

‘How long has it been since you were gripped by such a rage?’ she asked.

He slumped backwards against the squabs. ‘Since I was in Italy, when I was attacked by footpads. That wasn’t rage so much as terror. The spells were common when I was a teen. My sister was dead, my father a drunkard, and everything had changed.’ He shook his head. ‘But I learned to control them. I swear—’ He cut off his words. ‘I thought I’d learned.’ He looked to her arm. ‘I thought he was hurting you.’

What did she say to that? To a man who had carefully controlled his worst nature until the moment he’d seen someone hurting her? Mistaken or not, he had believed her in danger and had allowed his inner beast to fight on her behalf.

How could she not be grateful for that? How could she damn him?

She knew that a man who rages might turn his violence towards her at any moment. She had seen sailors who used any excuse to explode. But he was not that kind of man. He hated this fury inside him. The only question was how well did he control it? And could she risk being in his presence long enough to find out?

The answer, of course, was no. Logic and self-preservation told her that violent men were not to be tolerated. They always turned. This was not a kind world, and at some point a situation would turn against him. Something would happen, someone would defeat him, and he would react with violence. Such was the nature of violent men.

But she could not discard a man who had defended her. So few ever had. And none without conditions. Her father defended her because such was the duty of a man to his child. He didn’t know it was a lie. The ships’ captains had kept her safe because she had been their only navigator. All had got something from her in exchange for their help.

The Duke, on the other hand, had defended her because he’d thought her wronged.

After a lifetime of standing—afraid—on her own, the idea of having such a defender was a powerful temptation. And one that she was loath to give up.

‘We should not marry,’ she said, and the words were for herself, not him. She needed the ability to escape if necessary, and she could not do that if they were wed.

Her father disagreed. ‘But what about your reputation? You are to be launched tomorrow night!’

She had no answer. This was his country, his customs.

‘I shall court her,’ the Duke said.

‘What?’ her father gasped. ‘You have just said you will not marry her.’

‘I shall let it be known that she has refused me. That she was shocked by my outburst.’

That was true, but she had not been shocked by his violence. Only by his defence of her and her attraction to him.

‘Will that serve?’ her father pressed.

‘It will. I shall make my interest known. I will take the blame for my outburst solely upon myself.’

‘As well you should,’ said her father.

‘And that should make her attractive to everyone else.’

She frowned. ‘How?’

‘Because I am an unwed duke. I will not attend any outing that does not have you included in it. And every society matron will want me there.’

He was so confident in his attractiveness. Usually, she would doubt such arrogance. Men often overestimated their influence over women. But she couldn’t deny his appeal, so she nodded.

‘I will allow you to court me,’ she said, marvelling at her own arrogance.

If he wanted to pursue her, then she could do nothing to stop him. Except this wasn’t a true pursuit, was it? He would only pretend to court her because it was the best he could do without marrying her.

He nodded, clearly satisfied.

Her father, of course, wasn’t nearly as content, but he gave in with a grumble. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then you should take her out for her first dance tomorrow.’

‘And then the first waltz,’ the Duke agreed.

‘There must be at least one other outing.’

‘I have already offered to take her to the theatre.’

‘Yes. And perhaps Vauxhall?’

Her father was pushing. He clearly wanted these things for her.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ the Duke responded.

The two men shook hands, as if she had no part in the discussion. She stared at them both, seeing satisfaction in their faces. Then, to her shock, the Duke turned to her. Leaning forward, he grasped her fingers and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

‘Truly, Miss Richards, I apologise for the disaster of today’s meeting. It is my hope that you can forgive me today’s lapse and that we can begin anew. I swear to show myself a better man if you will allow it.’

He waited for her answer, her hand still clasped in his.

Heaven, what could she say to that? Her heart was beating triple time, her muscles were tensed as if to run, but where would she go? Out through the door or into his arms? He made her feel such contradictory things.

And still he waited for her answer.

The carriage stopped and the footman opened the door, but he did not move. He held her hand, he looked into her eyes, and he waited for her response.

‘I will allow it,’ she finally said, but what exactly had she just agreed to do? To dance with him? To attend the theatre with him as well as a pleasure garden? Or to let him tease her emotions in ways that had never tempted her before? Until she bit by bit opened herself to him?

That sounded like the height of folly.

And yet she had already agreed.