“Go where?” William asked suspiciously.
“Someplace with a roof and off the street. There will be food, too. Good food.”
“I don’t take charity.”
Oliver studied the man leaning against the wall on one leg, all of his worldly possessions in a ragged bundle on the ground. Lady Celeste had been correct. William Dryer and all the others like him needed to feel whole and as if they paid their own way. They were proud men who had served their country. “I’m not offering charity, but work.” He had no idea what the man could do—but he’d wager Lady Celeste might. “Do you come, or not?”
“Why would you do this, sir? Look at me.”
“I see you. Come, or not. The choice is yours.” Oliver began walking. A beat later, he slowed his step as he heard Dryer moving behind him. The soldier used his crutch with one hand and carried his meager possessions in the other.
Oliver soon learned that traveling with a cripple was slow going. He held out his hand as an offer to help Dryer carry his bundle, but the man proudly ignored it.
Pistol didn’t seem to mind the slow pace. He marched beside his master, even pausing when Dryer had to readjust his crutch under his arm. The animal’s devotion and awareness surprised Oliver.
His family had never had pets. His mother hadn’t liked them. They’d had hunting hounds. Packs of them at his various estates. They were wild, mad, howling dogs that were more interested in scaring up pheasants than in what their humans were doing. He doubted if even one of them would worry about his well-being.
Eventually, they reached Oliver’s stables, where he tasked the night groom with seeing to Dryer’s comfort. As Oliver was leaving, he overheard Dryer ask the groom who he was. “That is His Grace, the Duke of Salcombe.”
“Bloody hell,” Dryer whispered, and Oliver could not help but smile.
Bloody hell was right. He’d just done something positive, something that might change another man’s life.
His view of the world shifted inside him, a change of attitude. In the silence of the night, he realized he felt good about himself. He could barely remember a time when he’d been proud of who he was.
And he owed this change to Lady Celeste Harrington, who had chosen him to lead her charity.To lead. He could betheleader.
He went to bed filled with new purpose. Lady Celeste would be very pleased with his decision. She’d looked so worried when he’d left her in the garden, and it made him rather happy that he could alleviate her fears regarding her charity. He wasn’t certain what he would do with Dryer and Pistol, but she would know. He’d discuss the matter with her in the morning.
When Oliver woke,his new sense of purpose was stronger than ever.
He sat with his secretary, Peters, a man who always had good ideas. He told him about the charity and his decision to become its Lead Patron.
“I believe, Your Grace, that a notice in the papers of your patronage would not be out of order.”
“Yes, good idea. See to it.”
“What is the name of the charity, Your Grace?”
Oliver searched his memory. Had Lady Celeste told him the name of the charity? If she had, he didn’t remember. Very well, he would create one.
He thought a moment. “Legless Soldiers” would be a terrible name. “For King and Country” sounded important, but what did it mean?
Then, an idea hit him. “The charity is called ‘Our Brave Soldiers.’” He liked the sound of it. He thought men like Dryer would as well. No talk of cripples. Lady Celeste would probably want to add “and Pets,” but that didn’t matter. Once it was printed in all the papers, the title would be as he deemed fit.
Nor did he anticipate a problem. He was making the right decisions. Unfortunately, he and Peters became so busy with the planning, he lost track of time. He had promised to help his friend Haskell look at a horse. Later, they’d had indulged in a good dinner at an inn with an excellent cellar.
Tomorrow. He would call on Lady Celeste first thing, and she’d be pleased with all he had accomplished.
However, as he fell asleep, he was surprised that his last thought wasn’t of plans and charities, or even the excellent horseflesh he had convinced Haskell to purchase. No, he found himself recalling the feel of Lady Celeste in his arms, of fully feminine curves pressed snugly against him, and of lips that not only yielded to him, but made demands of their own.
And though he reminded himself—one more time—that Lady Celeste was not the sort of female who attracted him, that he liked statuesque, willowy women, the memory of the passion for her cause in her almond-shaped eyes wound their way through his dreams.
5
Celeste had spent the previous day pacing the floor of her sitting room, waiting and hoping for some word from the duke. Even though their parting had not given her cause to believe he would agree to helping with her charity, she’d held out hope that he might reconsider.
By nightfall, she had accepted that his answer was no. Dispirited, she had stayed in for the evening and was surprised to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep. All of her energy of late had gone toward fulfilling her father’s last request of her, and she had failed.
