“Yer Grace, I can’t let you?—”
“You can and will. I don’t give a damn where my father found you, or who your parents were, John. You’ve saved my neck more than once, man, and I’ll not lose you to a woman. If the only way to keepyouis to let you keep Eleanor Merrinan, so be it.”
John was still reeling from the news. “An honest t’ God earl’s granddaughter, Christ,” he again muttered. “She could do better’n me, sir. No wonder Charles were so put out.”
“My future Duchess put out by her sister marrying my steward?” He arched his brow. “All the more reason to knight you, Cuthbert!” Wells laughed roundly. “Besides, it’s about time you learned how it feels to be a person in charge of others. You might not bludgeon me so often with criticism once you’re made squire.”
“Oh I’ll not givethatup, sir.” John grinned back. “’Tis the one thing brings me joy, Yer Grace—to see yer put in yer place.”
“You lout, you.” Wells gave him a shove, much as they had as boys, and John shoved him back, till they were both in better spirits, hopeful once again.
Along the road, Charles felt sick to her stomach. The swaying and lurching of the coach made her nauseous, as did the sense she was making a mistake. What if she never saw Papa again? What if she ran out of coin before she found work in London? What if she missed not only Ellie’s wedding but the birth of her sister’s first child? What if, what if, what if . . . Her thoughts took the same twists and turns as her stomach, which tied itself into ever tighter knots.
What if she never saw Roland Wellesley again?
She brutally quashed that thought. She was still bitter over his arrogant proposal. It had hurt more than she wanted to admit, her pride smarting on too many counts. And she couldn’t admitwhyit had hurt so much either, at least not to Eleanor.
Partly it was because Cuthbert, blast him, had gone about everything right. He’d been respectful, patient, and loving while courting Ellie, proving time and again how much he cherished her. Wellesley had only ever taken what he wanted, when he wanted it, always considering his own needs above hers. Evenin proposing marriage he’d spoken only of how it might benefit him and the Duchy—as if her family’s lowered state would make Charles leap at the chance to raise her station through marriage.
As if it would be a bloody privilege to bear his heirs.
He’d not proposed, he hadpresumed, and she was done being his servant.
The carriage lurched left as Charles’s head bounced painfully against the coach. She fell deeper into despair, because for all her wounded pride, it was her soul, in truth, that ached. Despite all intentions otherwise, she’d fallen under his lordship’s spell these past months—his every act of tenderness and passion making her imagine he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She had secretly hoped he might even grow to need her, too.
But she didn’t needhim, she berated herself. He was an arrogant lord who would become an arrogant duke. His arrogance could be attractive in the bedroom, was no doubt necessary, even, when captaining a ship, but it was not conducive to a loving marriage. Wellesley was made to lead, as all dukes must, but he could never love like mortals did.
Like her parents had.
Like Cuthbert loved Eleanor.
Charles’s eyes filled with tears she angrily brushed aside. She forced herself to stare out the window at the bleak landscape, staving off overwhelming feelings of regret.
Once, when the coach stopped to pick up more travelers and roused her from an uneasy sleep, she thought she saw the ducal carriage hurtle past. At least, it looked like the Allendale coat of arms. She wondered why the Duchess would leave now—unless the Duke’s health had suffered a turn. Perhaps, like her own father, he was not long for this world. They were surely of similar age.
Charles’s gut twisted again, recalling how she’d said goodbye to Papa while he slept, ignorant of all that had befallen her, of all that was to come.
It was likely for the best.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
In her rush to flee Lord Wellesley, Charles had transferred coaches as often as was possible, traveling even overnight. It meant the nearly week-long trip from Cumberland to London was achieved in under four days, not the five it usually took to travel that distance. She was exhausted; every bone in her body ached. But she’d done it. She’d escaped.
Clutching her small bag of belongings—which consisted of little more than Ruby’s stitched frock—she asked the coach driver for the closest, cheapest lodging, yet the man blatantly ignored her. Asking a fellow traveler proved no better, so she looked down both sides of the crowded street she now stood on and decided left was as good a turn as any to take.
She’d forgotten London’s charms: the noise, the stench, the very offal that lined its streets. It had been ten years since she’d stepped foot in this city, and when she had, it had been on finer streets than this. She’d need to get her bearings fast.
Rounding a corner, Charles at last spied a sign for a tavern aptly named the Wayward Inn—and looking no less reputable than the rest of this quarter. She enquired after a room, choosing to rent for the night rather than the hour, and within minuteshad gratefully sunk into a deep stupor upon a none-too-clean bed.
She awoke after nightfall to the sound of a terrific crash, followed by screams of distress. She ran to lock the door but found no key. She wedged the lone chair in the room against the doorknob and was beginning to think she ought to have brought one of Cook’s carving knives with her for defense. But it was too late to ponder that. She crawled back into bed with the room’s lone brass candlestick clutched in her fist, praying for morning to come.
Five days later saw Wells in London, staring up at his parents’ opulent townhouse in Mayfair. A piece of him shuddered to be back in the city he hated above all others, yet he knew this was but a temporary visit. Besides, he could do worse than see for himself just how poorly his father, the Duke, fared.
As he entered the front hall, trailed by two footmen carrying his trunk, his parents’ butler came hurrying towards him, looking as the man always did: perpetually put out.
“My lord.” The butler bowed, a frown plastered to his lips.
“Tompkins, inform my parents I am staying but briefly on business. I’d like a bath and a shave. Oh, and a haircut as well.”
