A Duke of Her Own

“He’ll love living in the nursery with you. You have to let all the other children play with him, though.”



Tobias nodded. Oyster put his paws onto Tobias’s knees, and he hoisted the dog into his lap.



“He would really be your dog, even if the other children can play with him,” Eleanor said, watching Oyster lick Tobias’s teary face.



“But you’ll be right there,” he burst out. “Won’t she?” He looked at his father. “Won’t she? You said you were going to choose between them, and now you have to admit that the one out there is cracked. That Lisette, she’s a bleeding nightmare!”



“I would be honored,” Leopold said, looking up and meeting her eyes.



Eleanor’s throat ached. She’d seen his eyes rest on her arm, encircling Tobias. And he finally understood what Lisette was like.



But she wanted more. She wanted someone who loved her for herself. Who didn’t think she was good enough to bed but not good enough to mother—and who changed his mind only when she proved herself maternal enough. She wanted to be married for herself.



“Come on,” Tobias said, sounding as if he were pleading with Oyster again. “You’ll marry him, won’t you? He’s not so bad. That way, Oyster can stay with both of us.”



She shook her head, taking a deep breath. “I can’t, Tobias.”



“Please!” The word sounded wrung from his chest.



“It will be all right,” she said, oddly touched. “I promise you can keep Oyster.”



“But I—I like you,” he said, the words dropping into the silent room. “An’ the girls do too. You’ll see, we’ll be good. You’ll like Violet. She’s not real pretty, like Lucinda and Phyllinda, but she’s—she’s nice. And—”



“I can’t,” she said, standing up. “I just can’t, Tobias. I’m sorry.”



Leopold made a sharp movement, but said nothing.



Oyster jumped down and started frolicking around her ankles. Obviously his little brain had completely forgotten what had just happened to him. “Stay, Oyster,” she said.



Wonder of wonders, he actually sat down and wagged his tail.



“Good dog.”



It seemed a very long way to the door, but that was probably because of the silence behind her.



Chapter Thirty



Knole House, country residence of the Duke of Gilner



June 23, 1784



“I can’t fight with you,” Leopold said flatly. The sun was barely over the horizon and the air was surprisingly chilly.



“I didn’t give you a choice,” Astley said. He was pacing out the wet grass, his rapier unsheathed and ready.



“I’m a father.”



“You should have thought of that before you debauched Eleanor. Before you made her fall in love with you and then chose a raving lunatic over her.”



“I might well kill you. I rarely lose.”



Astley started pacing in the other direction, measuring the ground. “Ada’s dead. Death doesn’t frighten me.”



“I thought you were in love with Eleanor.”



Astley’s face crumpled for a moment. “I am. But I loved Ada too. Eleanor was right about that. It’s all so complicated…” He shook himself and kept pacing.



“If I kill you, I’ll have to leave the country. But the children—”



“Cart them away with you. You can’t tell me that anyone will care if you leave, let alone them. You? The Duke of Villiers? You have no family, other than your clutch of bastards. Everyone will be glad to see you take them away from decent society.”



“Are you ready to fight?” Villiers said, a wave of ice filling his veins. Astley was right. Well, almost. Elijah and Jemma would care if he had to leave England permanently. But no one else would.



It would probably be better for Eleanor, actually. She wouldn’t even have to see him. He hadn’t been able to sleep, slowly taking himself though an understanding of his catastrophic idiocy. He had spurned Eleanor because he thought Lisette would be a better mother for his children. But Lisette, he now understood, looked upon children as if they were playmates—or worse, playthings.



All the time, Eleanor was just the mother they needed: a woman who looked problems straight on, who didn’t ever lie or pretend. Tobias had known that. Hell, even Oyster knew how perfect she was.



So why was he such an idiot? Why was he the only one who didn’t know what motherhood looked like?



But even that was just a digression: the real question was why he was the only one who didn’t know what love looked like. Who didn’t realize that his heart, that stubborn organ that he’d always ignored, would be seared with agony by the idea of never seeing Eleanor again?



Why couldn’t he have known that was—that was love. Real love. The kind of love that never goes away.



“En garde!” Astley cried.



Leopold raised his rapier, still thinking.



“I fully plan to kill you,” Astley said pleasantly. “Perhaps you should pay attention.”



Leopold met Astley’s eyes and saw his determination. “In which event, you’ll be the one to leave the country.”



“No one cares what I do,” Astley said. “My mother’s dead. My father’s dead. Eleanor doesn’t love me anymore. I don’t want to sound like a sniveling schoolboy, but I no longer have the faintest interest in seeing tomorrow. And if I happen to be around for it, it won’t matter whether I’m in England or India.”



“Hell,” Leopold muttered. The man was mad with grief. He’d seen that look once before, on his aunt’s face—at the funeral for his five-year-old nephew.



He assumed his stance.



Obviously, Astley wasn’t practiced. And he didn’t even fight that well. In less fraught circumstances, Leopold could have chosen a spot to insert his blade and injured the duke within a minute. But passion, it seemed, changed everything.



He found himself fighting defensively, parrying Astley’s inexperienced lunges. It was surprisingly difficult, perhaps because Astley didn’t respond like a trained fencer. He simply slashed away as if Leopold were a hedge he had decided to prune.



Within ten minutes they were both sweating in the still-cool air. But Leopold couldn’t keep his mind on the duel, no matter how he tried. He just kept thinking what a fool he was. He didn’t seem to be able to trust his instincts.



His heart.



He took a step back. Astley bounded toward him, sword raised like some sort of avenging angel.



Leopold threw down his rapier.



Astley tried to stop, but slid on the wet grass and ended up on his back, sword in the air. Leopold offered him a hand. Astley ignored it and came to his feet, breathing hard. “What in the holy hell are you doing?” he demanded.



“I refuse to fight,” Leopold said, certain of the absolute rightness of that decision.



“Do I have to slap you again?”



“You can try. But I will not fight you. A duel is for protecting one’s honor,” he said painstakingly.



“You don’t think you need to protect your honor, after what you did?”



“I don’t think I have any.” He picked up his sword and untucked his shirt from his breeches in order to wipe the dew from the blade.

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