Page 17 of The Scandalous Love of a Duke (The Marlow Family Secrets #6)

John leaned back in the armchair, his elbows resting on the arms. A glass of port was balanced in one hand, and one ankle rested on the opposite knee.

The house was silent and seeing as there was no one here to care but himself, he had lit a cigar.

He was in the library, looking up at the life-size portrait of his grandfather, digesting the events of the day.

He could not fathom why his pragmatic, intolerant grandfather had kept a man like Wareham on all these years.

John drew on the cigar, let his head fall back and blew the smoke upwards.

According to Finch, Wareham had left without a word of complaint.

None of the servants knew why Wareham had gone.

John had not even told Finch the details.

Here, it was no one’s concern but his. However, he had written to Harvey the minute he had returned from seeing Katherine, informing him of Wareham’s dismissal and asking Harvey to advise all the other stewards of Wareham’s departure.

He had also asked Harvey to find a replacement.

John had a feeling he had missed something, though. He sipped his port and his mind swung to childhood memories. Ghosts always haunted him at night here, just as they had done in Egypt. But tonight he called them forward. He was convinced there was something he had forgotten.

The problem with memories was they came with the feelings which supported them. Feelings he had not been allowed as a child but had had nonetheless, loneliness, emptiness and hurt.

He stared at his grandfather’s image and took another drag on the cigar.

John had been intensely glad of his capacity to hide and bury his feelings today. Perhaps I ought to thank you.

He lifted his glass in a mocking toast.

His thoughts returned to the issue at hand. There was something… it was on the very edge of his conscious thought.

Wareham had always been present when John reviewed the books in his youth, and when John had reached the end of each page Wareham would check the lines John had written and total them.

‘Bloody hell!’ John stood. He had not checked the totals.

He threw the remainder of the cigar into the empty hearth, put down his glass and left the room.

The clever bastard.

Wareham had never taught John to add up the columns or check the totals.

John’s heart beat harder as he jogged upstairs. He was certain this was it.

In his private sitting room he withdrew the key to his safe from his waistcoat pocket.

He had the ledgers on the desk in a moment and ran his finger down the first page, mentally calculating quickly. His count and the figure did not match. He checked it again. It still did not.

Turning the page, he checked another total, no match, and the next, still no match. He looked at several and none of them tallied.

Oh my God. Wareham had been fleecing the old man for years. The old man would be turning in his grave.

The differences in the sums were miniscule but add every page together, and times that by years, it ran into hundreds, perhaps thousands.

John’s fingers swept back his fallen fringe. He remembered Katherine’s fingers sweeping it back from his brow earlier as she had said goodbye.

It was strange thinking of her. Why this moment? ‘ And I have wanted you like this since I saw you swimming in the lake before you even went abroad .’

John pushed the thought of her aside, and sat down to write another letter to Harvey, certain there must be copies of these ledgers somewhere. Wareham would have needed to keep track of how much he stole.

There must be a bank account somewhere too, from which Wareham made the loan which had never been repaid.

Of course Wareham could not have asked Harvey to manage the issue of the defaulted loan when it had been made from stolen money. It must have been paid from his own account not the Duke’s.

Now all the details slotted into place.

* * *

When Katherine entered the room at the top of the tower, John was sitting in the armchair. He had already removed his coat, waistcoat and neckcloth. He did not smile and there was no welcome in his eyes as there had been yesterday.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he charged. His eyes were like bright diamonds as he glared at her and his fingers toyed with a long, jet-black rook’s feather.

He said no more, waiting for her to speak.

He was in an ill-mood, she could see, and his ill-moods obviously intensified his arrogant and spoilt nature.

She undid the ribbons of her bonnet.

He looked detached and austere as she faced him. She guessed he was not. He had become hollow and heartless, to her eyes. But her soul said he was lonely and sorrowful.

He had brought a bottle of wine with him. It stood open on the table with a single glass beside it, he had been here long enough to drink from it.

She had not realised she was so late. ‘My mother had errands for me to run.’ Katherine felt angry with herself for giving excuses. What did it matter? It was her choice to come or not. She was not a servant to be ordered to attend him at a given time.

She set her bonnet aside and removed her gloves.

‘I see,’ he said bitterly.

Oh, he was infuriating today.

She undid her spencer and slid it off, remembering him saying he hated it.

It was that comment which had made her call him spoilt.

Let him live her life and see how he felt about someone insulting the coat he wore each day.

But of course that would never happen, his were cut and tailored on Savile Row, and he probably had three dozen.

‘I thought you had changed your mind.’ He slid the tip of the feather down across his cheek as he spoke.

‘Obviously not.’ If he was going to act like a child, she would treat him like one. ‘But you are sulking because I am late.’

‘I am not sulking. I do not sulk, Kate. If I wished to sulk I would pay someone to sulk for me.’

She poked her tongue out at him, knowing he was referring to her accusation that he was spoilt. She put her spencer down, then crossed the room and bent to kiss his brow, smoothing back his hair. He still did not move.

‘May I have some wine?’ she asked, drawing away.

‘If you wish.’

She did. She poured it for herself and said, with her back to him, ‘If you are not sulking, then you are angry with me.’

‘No.’

‘What are you then?’ She turned back, holding a full glass.

‘Hungry for you. Take off your dress.’

‘A ducal command. How romantic.’ He was in such a strange mood today – studying her – uncommunicative. Had something happened and he was taking it out on her? He genuinely seemed upset.

‘I am not romantic. Do not expect it of me.’

She had not. But she refused to strip on his whim.

She turned and looked out through the window, sipping her wine. The only house visible was Pembroke Place. The pale stone Palladian mansion reminded her of how far apart their worlds were.

‘So, are you going to undress?’ he asked.

Ignoring his petulant tone, and his order, she took another sip of wine.

‘Do you still want me?’ There was an odd note to his voice now, one that did sound like a child. His ducal shield was slipping.

She turned back and met his hard judging gaze. ‘I was not late on purpose, John.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Indignant anger tightened like a knot in her chest. ‘I had things to do. My absence would have been noted if I had not done them first.’

‘Is it some lesson to me?’

‘Of course it must be to do with you, it can be nothing to do with me, because everyone knows even the sun only circles the earth to pass about you.’ She hoped the jab hurt him as he had hurt her yesterday.

He had not taken his eyes off her but his expression did not change. She had said it to make him angrier. She wished for some reaction from him. At least let him prove he was human.

She drank the last of her wine, set the glass down and went to him. Then she leaned forward and kissed his lips, her fingers bracing her weight on his shoulders. He did not kiss her back.

She pulled away and faced his chilly look. Behind that look she knew there was insecurity and need, though, she was sure he would never admit it.

She kissed him again and this time his hand came up and braced the back of her head as his lips opened and he kissed her in return. It was a stubborn and demanding kiss. It didn’t matter, she had needs too, and they pulsed into life, exhilarated by the anticipation which clutched in her stomach.

When she ended the kiss because it was too awkward bending down, he said again, ‘Take off your dress.’

She may be a bastard by birth but John Harding had become a bastard in nature.

However, she chose to comply, because beneath the skin of the duke was the young man she adored, and he needed her.

She released the buttons at her chest. That young man had been kind and thoughtful towards her, as much of a brother as Phillip had been.

This man, she did not know. He was a stranger in John’s body really, and yet she knew the boy and the youth were within him.

He needed her to help him find who he was again.

This sad, angry man was not who John really was.

Brushing the feather against his cheek, John watched her, feeling control slipping through his fingers like sand. She undid her buttons and then slid her arms free so her dress hung from her waist before pushing it off over her petticoats. His heart pounded so loud he could hear it in his ears.

‘And the rest,’ he prompted, waving the feather in her direction. ‘…everyone knows even the sun only circles the earth to pass about you ’. Her words had cut again. Why did she think him spoilt? He was not.

Once she’d undone the tapes of her petticoats they slid to the floor and then she walked towards him and turned so he could help with her corset. His mouth dried at the defiant look he saw in her eyes. He liked her timidity but he rather liked her defiance too. It made her blue eyes glow.