Page 5 of Wedded to the Deviant Duke (Duke Wars #2)

CHAPTER 5

T halia had an awful sleep that night, though that wasn’t saying much as a resident of Whitechapel. If her mind hadn’t been buzzing with the duke’s proposal, then her neighbor’s nasty cough certainly would have been the reason for her headache.

The putrid scent of the unwashed from the streets below also kept her awake, slipping between the cracks of the boarded-up window within the hovel she claimed as her room.

Not that she dared to complain; anyone would be so lucky to own a rookery for themselves, and her brother had worked hard to earn it. Though he shared it with a handful of young men—his tosher crew—it was certainly better than the nearly one hundred folk she’d seen crammed into such small housing.

No. Thalia knew to hold fast to whatever blessings she had. The home was warm, the kitchen stocked well enough to not go hungry, and the men Robin had surrounded himself with proved to be as morally straight as he was. There had to be a deep level of trust, she supposed, between individuals whose well-being relied upon each other.

She’d never personally been down in the sewers (and fervently hoped never to visit), but from the occasional story Robin would tell of his exploits, it seemed a rather dangerous occupation. She had learned long ago that no job in Whitechapel was safe, and at the very least, her brother had a good group of companions to watch his back.

It was still nerve-wracking every time he set out for the evening, and the mornings drew out terribly whenever Thalia waited for his return. Today was especially difficult, and as she sat at their makeshift dining table, sipping a watery cup of tea, she found herself wondering exactly how to explain last night’s ordeal to her younger brother.

He certainly hadn’t been thrilled when she arrived on his doorstep all those weeks ago, but Thalia could tell Robin had been greatly enjoying her presence in the home.

The other men had as well, eagerly looking forward to whatever meager meal she could come up with before they headed out for the night. “To tell him now that a duke wishes my company for nearly a week…” Thalia sighed, setting her mug against the ring-stained table as she chanced a look out of the partially-boarded windows.

The factory smog rolled thickly today, obscuring even the closest of buildings and fading the dirty cobbles to near obscurity. Every so often, a hunched figure or tattered-skirt hem appeared from the haze, followed quickly after by wet, chest-wracking coughs.

Thalia quickly stood, gathering a slip of newspaper before pressing it against the exposed windowpane. The last thing she needed was the household getting sick. Not that their expeditions to the sewers helped in the matter, but at least this way, she felt like she was doing something to contribute.

Finally, the sound of the back door’s lock clicked, and Thalia’s heart skipped a beat. By sheer habit, she reached for a vegetable knife against the kitchen counter and stood, ready to run out the front door if needed.

“My, but the robins are looking rather handsome today!”

Thalia’s shoulders relaxed, the knife returning to its place. “And the flowers are perfectly in bloom,” she called back. “Now, come greet me properly, Robin! I’m here in the kitchen.”

The scuffling of feet followed soon by the appearance of a younger man, the spitting image of Thalia herself. His frame was far lighter, though, indicative of the constant challenges of survival given to him on the daily.

He kept his own dark hair cut short and close, his face clean-shaven and currently obscured by a cloth tied around his mouth and nose. That drew Thalia’s attention to her brother’s eyes—richly brown and tinged in a honeyed hope whenever the light caught against it. The sort of optimism she hoped would persist throughout his difficult life.

Robin made his way towards a rickety-looking chair, slipping out of his canvas trousers and undoing the strings of a thick apron. It all went clattering to the ground, though he seemed to wrestle with the lantern secured to his shirt via knotted rope.

“Here,” Thalia stepped across and over his pile, picking at the knot with her good hand. “You really ought not to tie this so tightly.”

“And risk losing it in the water?” Robin’s laughter didn’t seem entirely humorous, a tinge of genuine panic settled deep in the back of his throat. “No way; I’d rather you chastise me about my knots than be stuck in the sewers blind.” His gaze settled on her bandaged wrist, and he added softly, “How’s the wrist?”

“Better than it was a few days ago. I think it truly was just a sprain.” She knew Robin wanted to add something to the conversation, but he remained quietly fuming instead.

It wouldn’t do them any good to relive bad memories anyway, and perhaps that’s what kept him silent. Eventually, Thalia got the knot free, gingerly setting the lamp on the table as her brother continued to strip down. “Did everything go alright on your side of things?”

Robin nodded, eventually making it down to a pair of rather patched-up long johns. “Pretty decent haul to clean later—boys wanted to take advantage of the smog and do some resurrectionism.” He held up his hand, the other covering his heart in a sort of mock-promise. “That’s why I made sure to come straight home. A promise is a promise, after all.”

“And I appreciate you making it in the first place. Best to leave the dead as is.” Thalia paused, quietly watching her brother shift his work clothes into a slightly-worn basket, before adding, “Thank you again, Robin. I know it must be hard to pass up on opportunities, no matter how macabre they may be.”

He slid the basket toward the door, gesturing to it with a guilty groan. “I’m just sorry I have to put you through all this. It’s hardly the life you deserve, washing a tosher’s clothing.”

“You were in no way responsible for my current circumstance,” Thalia insisted. “I’m thankful you took me in at all. The least I can do is ensure your clothes aren’t completely putrid the next time you head out. Now, go on upstairs; there’s a warm bath waiting for you, and I’ll tell you all about Orion’s Hunt over a freshly-brewed pot.”

Robin’s expression wavered, a misty glaze casting over his eyes. “You really didn’t have to do all that, Thalia.”

“I absolutely did,” she replied with a teasing wink. “You positively reek, dear brother, and I refuse to share tea with you otherwise. I’m a sophisticated lady, after all.” She added a mock-curtsy at the end, pulling another snort of laughter from Robin as he made his way towards the staircase.

Once he’d completely ascended, Thalia allowed herself a heavy sigh before preparing the teapot over the fireplace one more. At least, until someone began to knock on their front door.

Thalia moved to open it, but hesitated, hand lingering just in front of the door’s knob. Robin had made a point to tell his crew to always use the back entrance, to call out their code phrase so she knew it was them.

The front door usually meant trouble—beggars, debtors looking to collect, the constables looking for one criminal or the other—and her brother was upstairs.

She debated on calling out to him, only for the door to rattle once more with impatience. Once more, the vegetable knife slipped into her hand, positioned behind her back as she peered through the door’s seam.

It took a minute to make out the shade, but once she did, Thalia gasped. Quickly, she undid the locks and threw the door open, completely taken aback to see the Duke of Stonewell standing on her front stoop.

“Y-Your Grace! I—you came so much sooner than I—how on earth did you find me?” Her eyes flickered to the stinking basket of clothing, and she cursed inwardly at the poor timing of it all.

“You mentioned your residency was in Whitechapel last night,” he explained, hardly seeming to notice the clothing—or the overbearing smell—at all.

“Yes, but Whitechapel is massive!”

“And its residents don’t typically consist of disgraced daughters of late marquesses. Or how they came to live with their half-brothers, the illegitimate sons of said Marquesses.” The duke arched his brow, his arms settling loosely against his chest. “You’re quite the topic of gossip around these parts, Miss Sutton. I would have thought you’d known as much.”

Thalia’s face flushed horribly. She did know, of course, at least to some extent. But to have rumors so rampant that a stranger could easily find her place of residence? It didn’t settle well in her stomach; she made a note to warn Robin, later. “W-well, that still doesn’t explain why you are here, Your Grace,” she said.

The duke’s expression remained terrifyingly neutral. “I’ve come to collect you, per our arrangement. Or were your last words to me not an acknowledgement of consent?”

“Well, n-no–” Thalia quickly shook her head, then decided to nod. “I mean, I truly do wish to accept your help, Your Grace.”

“If that’s the case, you may want to start by setting that weapon down.”

Thalia blinked, realizing she still hid the kitchen knife behind her back. Quickly, she discarded it across a splintered entryway table, gesturing farther into the rookery. “I’m…sorry.”

The duke shrugged. “Your caution is understandable—I’m impressed you were willing to stab whomever stood on the other side of this door.” He eyed her still-bandaged wrist, and Thalia quickly folded her hands behind her back.

“W-well, I’ve been forcing you to stand out in the smog for far too long. Please, come in, Your Grace,” Thalia insisted. “We can discuss further details of our… arrangement.”

She didn’t think he would, and Thalia couldn’t blame him. What duke would be caught dead entering such a horrid place?

He was already risking quite a lot simply being in Whitechapel, and yet, he seemed unbothered by the request, even entering the home and finding a seat at their table. Thalia stood by the door, her mind reeling. There was a genuine duke in her home—her brother’s home—and he hardly looked nearly as aghast as she felt.

“Are you going to offer me a cup?” he asked.

Thalia blinked, suddenly aware of the whistling kettle. She quickly removed it from its hook over the fireplace, setting it against the table before scrounging up another mug from the shelves. “Ah…we only have an inexpensive black, I’m afraid. It’s likely quite old.”

“That will be fine,” the duke replied coolly.

Thalia put a cup together and set it against the table, unable to do anything else but stare. Eventually, the duke slid the cup closer and raised it for a sip; she didn’t see a single line of grimace or hear a groan from him. “Your wrist is improving, then? That was quite a bit of strain against it just now.”

“W-well, one cannot worry about such minor discomforts in Whitechapel,” Thalia replied. “But, yes—your aid was quite helpful. It’s remained quite still, and I’m certain it will be better soon.”

The duke was quiet for a moment, scrutinizing Thalia entirely before speaking once more. “As I said last night, my aid will cost you five days within the walls of my mansion.” He set the mug back down, gently swirling the contents within. “Five days of elaborate courtship, to put rumors of my romantic endeavors to rest. In exchange, I will help you dishonor your cousin and return all you have lost.”

Thalia nearly fell out of her chair, her hand catching against the table. “I—what?”

The duke took another sip in return, never once breaking eye contact with Thalia. It fell to her to explain herself, then.

“N-no, I couldn’t possibly—I only want what’s legally mine, your Grace. Giles has the title of marquess by law, but I—there were estates on my mother’s side—documents he burned.” Thalia paused, only now realizing how impossible of a task this truly was. “I’m…not even sure how one would go about reclaiming those documents, now. I doubt there are copies, and it would be his word against mine.”

“It would be his word against a duke’s,” he corrected. “And the specifics of my plan are hardly your concern. All you need to worry about is behaving properly in public with me.”

Thalia couldn’t help but let out a snort, completely forgetting whose presence she was in. She cleared her throat awkwardly, quickly standing from her chair and turning back to the fireplace. “Would you like any milk with your tea, Your Grace?”

Silence. A shiver ran down her spine, and Thalia reached for the upper shelves, trying to grasp at the condensed milk. Her fingers just barely brushed against the container, and she grunted, straining to reach, to ignore the duke’s cold gaze against her back. If her wrist wasn’t still sprained…

“Allow me, my lady.”

Every nerve ending erupted as Thalia felt a sudden weight against her back. Her eyes flickered, catching the duke pressed against her back as he stretched his arm upward, grasping the sugar bowl with ease.

“You may hide the severity of your injury all you want, Miss Sutton,” the duke whispered into her ear. “But for the next few days, I won’t allow any form of harm to come to you.”

His warm breath caught Thalia’s in her chest, bubbling into a rush of exhilaration. Or, no; she was embarrassed, and rightfully so at such close proximity.

“Of course…” The duke set the bowl against the table, his hand cradling her splinted wrist. “If you begged nicely for it, I would happily consider leaving my mark on you…”

She would. No, she wouldn’t?! A dizzying euphoria flushed across Thalia’s cheeks, and she tried desperately to calm herself. He was toying with her, playing with his food like the deviant predator he was. And yet, he held her wrist so gently, brushed his thumb across her knuckles as tenderly as one might the bare skin of…of…!

“Get off Thalia, you bastard!”