Dare to Love a Duke

None of that had been in the papers. There were aspects of the Duke of Northfield that no one but those closest to him would ever know.

But in the Times, there had been a paragraph that, hours later, Tom could recite from memory. It had burned itself into his mind, and into his heart.

We cannot help but speculate whether or not the new duke will take up his late father’s ideology and principles. His Grace, the previous duke, has left a sizable void in the nation’s political landscape. Further, it is a known truth that the younger gentleman in question has led a somewhat undisciplined existence. Many await his next steps with bated breath. Shall he continue in his riotousness, or will he take up the mantle left behind by his father, and preserve England’s established institutions?

We cannot foretell.

God above, but if that wasn’t a burden to carry. The eyes of the country were on him. And all he wanted to do was run.

But now that he was duke, he could use his might in the advancement of progressive causes, as he’d longed to do when he was only the heir. Others might expect him to be a duplicate of his father, but he didn’t have to be. He could be his own man with his own beliefs, his own goals.

A step quietly creaked. He glanced up, and saw Maeve, dressed in mourning black bombazine with a jet broach at her throat, a veil covering her face and a black handkerchief twisted in her fingers.

His heart plunged to see his sister, a girl of just nineteen, so somberly garbed. She ought to be dressed in bright, springtime green or the yellow of daffodils, with a coral necklace about her neck and her pretty face rosy from the heat of a ballroom.

He smoothed a hand over the dark band encircling his arm and ran his finger along the length of his black neckcloth. Unlike Maeve, his mourning was limited to smaller signifiers—in every way.

Ballrooms were forbidden to her, as were color and joy. As if she, or Tom, could ever feel joy again in the wake of their father’s death.

Maeve’s steps were slow as she descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she paused, holding the newel post. Her veil stirred as she let out a long exhale.

“Are you certain about this?” Tom asked. “You don’t need to tax yourself.”

“I need to go,” his sister said. Her words were steadier than her gait. “I need to see him.”

“As you like.” But Tom wrapped a sheltering arm around her shoulders as he guided her toward the back door.

Tenderness and protectiveness rose up within him when she leaned against him. He was rocketed back to when he’d been a lad of thirteen, cradling his newborn sister in his arms, frozen with terror that he might drop the delicate thing and have her shatter into tiny fragments at his gangly feet.

His mother hadn’t been able to keep any other baby she’d conceived. All his siblings had either died in utero or within a day of their births. No one had been certain whether or not Maeve would join her departed siblings in the churchyard. Yet she’d made it through the first week, and when Tom had finally been allowed to see and hold her, he’d vowed then—just as he vowed now—that he would safeguard her for the rest of his days.

They reached the door that opened to a narrow, walled yard, and Tom pushed it open to escort Maeve out. Thick gray clouds smeared across the sky, and a cutting wind blew into the yard.

Maeve tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. “I missed this.”

“The dreadful weather?”

“Being outside. I haven’t set foot outside the house in three weeks and five days.”

He’d had to report back to her about the funeral and burial, as she and their mother had been obliged by the rules of polite society that such a sorrowful ordeal would tax their fragile emotions overmuch.

A corner of Tom’s mouth lifted in a humorless smile. He had been the one who could barely stand beside the open grave as the casket had been lowered. He had swallowed countless tears, trying to manfully force them back rather than permit himself the luxury of open grief. His throat still burned with gulping back sobs. Maeve and their mother, Deirdre, were free to show their sorrow—so long as they did so within the confines of Northfield House. Open displays of anyone’s emotions, be they male or female, were distressing and gauche.

No one seemed permitted to indicate that they had feelings, especially not messy, complicated feelings that threatened to rip one apart from the inside out.

But he had to be strong. For Maeve, for their mother.

“How does it feel to be in the open air again?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment. “Cold.”

“We can go back.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mind. It proves that I’m still alive.”

The unspoken words but he isn’t hung in the air.

“And,” she added, “Hugh’s expecting me.” Though her veil obscured her face, there was a hint of brightness in her voice as she said Lord Stacey’s name.

“The carriage is waiting for us.” Tom helped her out of the yard and down the gravel path that led to the stables. “I told John the coachman to draw the curtains so that no one could see you.”

“My thanks.”

Tom bit back a warning about the possible damage to her reputation if she was seen outside of her home so soon after her father’s passing. It was her decision to make, and he trusted her judgment.

It was a cruel thing to permit men the release and freedom of leaving their homes in the wake of a family member’s death, while women were trapped within the walls, barely permitted a visitor other than a consoling clergyman. How could anyone survive the crush of grief if they could not take in a little air or be given even a moment’s reprieve from their sorrow?

So Tom had agreed when Maeve had proposed this sortie. He would give his sister anything, if she asked.

“This way,” he said, guiding her along the path.

“I can’t see a thing behind this blasted veil,” Maeve grumbled. “It’s like my eyes are full of smoke.”

“I’ll be your eyes.”

“Again, my big brother champions me,” she said warmly.

“As a big brother, I am contractually obligated to champion you.”

They had reached the stable yard, where the carriage and driver awaited them, while a groom held the horses. In a show of respect, the coachman wore a black caped coat, the footman standing beside the vehicle was attired in inky livery, while horses had been draped with black fabric.

Tom and Maeve approached the carriage.

“Your Grace,” the coachman said, bowing. “Lady Maeve.”

Tom suppressed a grimace. Wrong, he wanted to shout. My father is His Grace, not me.

His whole life, he had known that one day he’d assume the title. But that had been a purely intellectual exercise and easy to dismiss. Yet to finally be the Duke of Northfield felt like trying to breathe underwater.

I’m not ready, damn it. Not for any of this.

“You know where we are headed?” Tom asked the driver as the footman helped Maeve into the carriage.

“Broom House Farm, Your Grace. In Fulham.”

“And?” Tom prompted.

“And Her Grace isn’t to know of it,” John recited.