Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

He had not cried for Arthur. Not once. He’d been so full of anger-at the French, at himself-that he had not left room for grief.

But now here it was, rushing in. All the sadness, all the times he’d witnessed something amusing and Arthur had not been there to share it with. All the milestones he had celebrated alone. All the milestones Arthur would never celebrate.

He cried for all of that. And he cried for himself, for his lost years. He’d been running. Running from himself. And he was tired of it. He wanted to stop. To stay in one place.

With Grace.

He would not lose her. He did not care what he had to do to ensure their future, but ensure it he would. If Grace said that she could not marry the Duke of Wyndham, then he would not be the Duke of Wyndham. Surely there was some measure of his destiny that was still under his control.

“I need to see to the guests,” Mary whispered, pulling gently away.

Jack nodded, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes. “The dowager…” Good lord, what was there to say about the dowager, except: “I’m so sorry.”

“She shall have my bedchamber,” Mary said.

Normally Jack would have forbidden her to give up her room, but he was tired, and he suspected she was tired, and tonight seemed like the perfect time to put ease before pride. And so he nodded. “That is very kind of you.”

“I suspect it’s something closer to self-preservation.”

He smiled at that. “Aunt Mary?”

She’d reached the door, but she stopped with her hand on the knob, turning back around to face him. “Yes?”

“Miss Eversleigh,” he said.

Something lit in his aunt’s eyes. Something romantic. “Yes?”

“I love her.”

Mary’s entire being seemed to warm and glow. “I am so happy to hear it.”

“She loves me, too.”

“Even better.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “it is.”

She motioned toward the hall. “Will you return with me?”

Jack knew he should, but the evening’s revelations had left him exhausted. And he did not want anyone to see him thus, his eyes still red and raw. “Would you mind if I remained here?” he asked.

“Of course not.” She smiled wistfully and left the room.

Jack turned back toward his uncle’s desk, running his fingers slowly along the smooth surface. It was peaceful here, and the Lord knew, he needed a spot of peace.

It was going to be a long night. He would not sleep. There was no sense in trying. But he did not want to do anything. He did not want to go anywhere, and most of all, he did not want to think.

For this moment…for this night…he just wanted to be .

Grace liked the Audleys’ drawing room, she decided. It was quite elegant, decorated in soft tones of burgundy and cream, with two seating areas, a writing desk, and several cozy reading chairs in the corners. Signs of family life were everywhere-from the stack of letters on the desk to the embroidery Mrs. Audley must have abandoned on the sofa when she’d heard Jack at the door. On the mantel sat six miniatures in a row. Grace walked over, pretending to warm her hands by the fire.

It was their family, she instantly realized, probably painted fifteen years ago. The first was surely Jack’s uncle, and the next Grace recognized as Mrs. Audley. After that was…Good heavens, was that Jack? It had to be. How could someone change so little? He looked younger, yes, but everything else was the same-the expression, the sly smile.

It nearly took her breath away.

The other three miniatures were the Audley children, or so Grace assumed. Two boys and one girl. She dipped her head and said a little prayer when she reached the younger of the boys. Arthur. Jack had loved him.

Was that what he was talking about with his aunt? Grace had been the last to enter the drawing room; she’d seen Mrs. Audley pull him gently through another doorway.

After a few minutes the butler arrived, announcing that their rooms had been prepared, but Grace loitered near the fireplace. She was not ready to leave this room.

She was not sure why.

“Miss Eversleigh.”

She looked up. It was Jack’s aunt.

“You walk softly, Mrs. Audley,” she said. “I did not hear you approach.”

“That one is Jack,” Mrs. Audley said, reaching out and removing his miniature from the mantel.

“I recognized him,” Grace murmured.

“Yes, he is much the same. This one is my son Edward. He lives just down the lane. And this is Margaret. She has two daughters of her own now.”

Grace looked at Arthur. They both did.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Grace finally said.

Mrs. Audley swallowed, but she did not seem to be near tears. “Thank you.” She turned then, and took Grace’s hand in hers. “Jack is in his uncle’s study. At the far end of the hall, on the right. Go to him.”

Grace’s lips parted.

“Go,” Mrs. Audley said, even more softly than before.

Grace felt herself nod, and before she’d had time to consider her actions, she was already in the hall, hurrying down toward the end.

To the door on the right.

“Jack?” she said softly, pushing the door open a few inches.

He was sitting in a chair, facing the window, but he turned quickly and stood at the sound of her voice.

She let herself in and closed the door gently behind her. “Your aunt said-”

He was right there. Right there in front of her. And then her back was against the door, and he was kissing her, hard, fast, and- dear God -thoroughly.

And then he stepped away. She couldn’t breathe, she could barely stand, and she knew she could not have put together a sentence if her life had depended on it.

Never in her life had she wanted anything as much as she wanted this man.

“Go to bed, Grace.”

“What?”

“I cannot resist you,” he said, his voice soft, haggard, and everything in between.

She reached toward him. She could not help it.

“Not in this house,” he whispered.

But his eyes burned for her.

“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

She did. She ran up the stairs, found her room, and crawled between her sheets.

But she shivered all night.

She shivered and she burned.

Can’t sleep?”

Jack looked up from where he was still sitting in his uncle’s study. Thomas was standing in the doorway. “No,” he said.

Thomas walked in. “Nor I.”

Jack held out the bottle of brandy he’d taken from the shelf. There had not been a speck of dust on it, even though he was quite certain it had gone untouched since his uncle’s death. Aunt Mary had always run a pristine household.

“It’s good,” Jack said. “I think my uncle was saving it.” He blinked, looking down at the label, then murmured, “Not for this, I imagine.”

He motioned to a set of crystal snifters near the window, waiting with the bottle in hand as Thomas walked across the room and took one. When Thomas returned, he sat in the study’s other wingback chair, setting his snifter down on the small, low table between them. Jack reached out and poured. Generously.

Thomas took the brandy and drank, his eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. “It will be dawn soon.”

Jack nodded. There were no hints of pink in the sky, but the pale silvery glow of morning had begun to permeate the air. “Has anyone awakened?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

They sat in silence for several moments. Jack finished his drink and considered another. He picked up the bottle to pour, but as the first drops splashed down, he realized he didn’t really want it. He looked up. “Do you ever feel as if you are on display?”