Page 3 of Lavender’s Lost Duke

“Darling? Darling!” Something snapped inside of her. “Don’t you ever call me that again.” She may have been ever the wallflower, willing to keep their growing relationship in the background while Mr. Lanscombe “sorted out his future,” but she was also raised by the one and only Lady Gardner. Summoning all her interactions with her mother, Lavender stood and pointed a shaking finger at Mr. Lanscombe’s chest. “You are a scoundrel, a snake. I hope you find exactly what you deserve in London.”

Mr. Lanscombe stood and looked at her with not only guilt in his eyes, but even worse: pity. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You know I never could have married you.” He looked in disgust at the red scars that peeked out from between her long white glove and the sleeve of her dress. “There are too many obstacles to overcome between us. Besides, I need a wife that will keep things interesting. With you, I always knew what I would be getting.”

“What you would be getting?” Lavender’s stomach rolled. “So all of it was a lie, a manipulation, for you to get what exactly?”

He put his hands out in front of him. “Calm down. We are neighbors; I was just having a bit of fun.”

Fun? That was all she’d been to him? An easy distraction from the boredom of country life?

They’d talked about a future together, and the ease of courting since they lived next door.

She’d seen the way her scars had made him uncomfortable. She knew they were grotesque, so she did her best to keep them from sight. But if they were something so hideous that he couldn’t see past them to who she was, she couldn’t marry him even if he had wanted it. All his sneaking through the gardens and pastures to see her made sense in a completely different light. “You need to leave. Now.” She pointed to the door.

Mr. Lanscombe sighed dramatically. “Don’t be like this, Lavender.”

“And you do not have permission to use my Christian name.” She strode from the room and knocked into Mary, who had just turned the corner, bringing in a tea tray. The hot, steaming pot of liquid crashed to the floor between them, shattering into fragments alongside Lavender’s heart.

She steadied herself by holding onto the maid’s shoulders. Mary looked as if she were being threatened with a knife. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. This was not your doing, Mary. I’ll make sure my mother knows that, don’t worry.” She made tear-filled eye contact with Mary to assure her that she wouldn’t lose her position over the occurrence. Then Lavender turned to see Mr. Lanscombe staring at her like she was a helpless child. “Mary, see that Mr. Lanscombe leaves this moment.”

Lavender did not look back as she ran up the stairs to her bedchamber, her tea-stained dress clinging to her ankles. She’d wasted three years waiting. She’d never pushed for a London Season, content with loving her closest neighbor. But now, at the age of one and twenty, she didn’t know what her future would look like—only that Mr. Lanscombe would not be a part of it. What a terrible, hateful man he turned out to be.

And what a stupid girl she’d been to trust him.

Chapter 2

Four months later . . .

It was too early in the morning for Thomas’s eyes to be playing tricks on him. Certainly there was only one maid standing beside him with an outstretched full cup of sherry, but he saw two. The last thing Thomas needed was to multiply the amount of women vying for his attention.

“Can I interest Your Grace in another cup of sherry?” the pretty maid asked in a soft whisper.

Thomas nodded. He was already seeing double—what could one more drink hurt? “Please, and thank you.” He blinked hard, hating that he’d allowed his demons to answer for him. But he’d come here to forget his troubles. It didn’t seem to be working.

He turned to his partners at the card table. “This is my last hand today.” The gentleman’s club at White’s only admitted the highest ranking of society, and as the Duke of Fenleigh, Thomas had found many acquaintances amongst the set. However, there were few he claimed a close kinship with.

His current partners at whist were a cheery lot. They were all a little in their cups even though it was still early in the day, but Thomas would hazard a guess that none of them were quite as foxed as he was.

What was the point of drinking more if the memories of his parents wouldn’t leave him be? Moreover, what would they think of him if they could see him now? Maudlin was not a good look.

Thomas knew it was his time to exit. The thrill of staying late for a few hundred more pounds just didn’t appeal to him anymore. He didn’t need the money, or the ridiculous headache that would follow if he didn’t stop drinking soon.

The elderly Mr. Williamson put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You’re calling it quits, already, Fenleigh?”

“I probably should.”

“We all should, but you’re the only one who walks away from money you know you’ll win. I can’t understand it by half.” Mr. Williamson looked at him with a crease in his brow, adding yet another wrinkle to his age.

Thomas side-stepped the comment. “The day my choices make sense is the day I’ll eat my hat. I can’t stay put in one place for long. I’ve got to be moving and doing.” Where he was going and what he was doing . . . he had no idea. Truthfully, he could hire out almost everything he had to do except for voting in parliament.

He won the game, and no one was surprised. Thomas pushed himself up and his hip bit into the table. What was the point of walking around drunk if his memory was still so keen?

A group of men in the corner were whispering behind their cups and not so subtly looking at him. Odd, that. Thomas waved to them, and they all ducked their heads as if they hadn’t seen him. No, it wasn’t that—they acted as if they didn’t want to be seen with him. Wonderful. What rumors were flying around about him now? And how long would it take for them to die down this time?

A stiff April breeze greeted Thomas as he pushed out of the building. It was a blessing, really. The cool air heightened his dulled senses just enough for him to realize that it was not only the group of men at the club that found him fascinating today. Well, more fascinating than normal—as a duke, he endured people’s eyes upon him wherever he went—but when there was a rumor about him, the stares always felt different. Today, as he strolled along St. James Street, an older gentleman made eye contact with him, jumped, and then crossed to the opposite side of the road. What precisely was going on? He’d been in the gossip column often enough, but not for anything that would make people avoid him altogether.

He supposed he’d made some people angry. Probably Lord Chilcott. Just a couple weeks ago, he and Lord Chilcott almost came to fisticuffs over a dance partner, but he’d thought that particular storm had blown over. Not permanently, of course, Thomas would harass the man again. It was what they’d done to each other these past fifteen years, ever since Thomas’s world had been tipped sideways. The pompous baron had nothing better to do than annoy Thomas at every turn, and the act was getting old. It was a pity they were related.