Chapter Twelve
Lucas stared across the fine carriage that had been sent to retrieve him. Diana was looking straight ahead, her gaze inscrutable and her hands clenched in her lap. She looked as though she were being led to the gallows, not to his fine home a mere hour’s drive across the city from her own.
Of course, that was how he felt about this shift, too. He had no interest in returning to the ducal home and the ducal life. That was what he’d been avoiding for years. Almost a decade, actually. A decade since the moment that had blown his life apart and exposed the lies beneath.
“Are they accustomed to you bringing home a mistress from time to time?” Diana asked, her soft voice cutting into his thoughts.
He jerked his head up. “I…” He hesitated. To tell her the truth was to reveal some of that exposed nerve that was his family and his past. But he had promised not to lie anymore. “In truth, I do not go here often,” he admitted.
She tilted her head in surprise. “Even when you are in Town?”
“I have a townhouse near Piccadilly,” he said. “I prefer to spend my time there.”
“But you are coming here because it is—”
“More public,” he said. “It will make it look to our traitor as though I have given up my life as a spy and shifted to the life duty dictates.”
“After the extent of your injuries, I suppose that makes sense,” Diana said. “Have you ever thought of doing it in truth?”
“I have no interest in being Duke of Willowby,” he said, his tone far harsher than he had intended.
She did not recoil from it, though. Instead, she leaned in, reaching out to take his hands in hers. “But you are Duke of Willowby.”
He almost laughed. Almost let the whole story fall from his lips as she massaged his hands. Luckily, the carriage turned into his drive and then pulled up to a stop. It silenced any foolish confession that might have fallen from his lips.
He straightened and tugged his hands away. “And now we play our roles.”
She was slower to sit up, and her expression was troubled as the door to the carriage opened and revealed a footman. She went out first, smiling at the servant in thanks before she turned back and helped the man as Lucas eased his way down the short stairs. He saw the servants who were lined up outside to greet him exchange looks, and his cheeks flared.
Whether they were wondering at why the prodigal son had returned or marveling at his fall from physical prowess, either option was difficult. He didn’t like their whispers and their judgment.
Diana slid her arm through his and whispered, “Steady on.”
He glanced down at her, surprised that those two little words had cut through the anxiety and emotion. Suddenly he cared a little less about the others. There was her and that was enough.
She guided them up the stairs, careful to make it appear that he was bearing all of his own weight rather than leaning slightly on her as he quietly greeted the servants. When they reached the top step, his father’s butler, Jones, awaited them. Lucas pressed his lips together. He and Jones had never seen eye to eye.
But to his surprise, the butler actually seemed pleased to see him. “Your Grace,” he said. “How good to have you home, sir.”
Lucas stepped into the foyer and looked around with a sigh. Home. This place had never been home. Nor had any of his father’s estates. He had never spent a moment of his life feeling wanted there. Feeling loved. He’d hardened himself to the reactions those facts created, but he recalled them well. Recalled the pain of being so young and knowing he was despised by a man who was supposed to care for him.
“Jones,” he forced himself to say. “May I present Miss Oakford.”
The butler’s gaze slid to her, and Lucas felt her shift under the scrutiny. Of course she would. Being labeled a mistress was something she claimed to be able to handle, but that did not mean she would enjoy the exercise.
Still, Jones managed admirably. He bobbed his head in welcome. “Miss Oakford,” he said. “We shall endeavor to do all we can to ensure your comfort during your stay.”
“Thank you,” Diana said, her voice very small and even meek.
Lucas didn’t like it, but he pressed on. “I do apologize for deciding to come so suddenly. I hope it did not create too much work for the staff.”
“No, Your Grace,” Jones said as he took gloves and hats from them. “Since your mother was already staying here, it really required nothing.”
Lucas stiffened. “Ah, yes. The duchess. Is she still in residence?”
Now the butler looked uncomfortable. “Er, yes, Your Grace. She is packing up for a move to the dower house, but she is still here. She wanted to see you when you—”
“I see her. You may go, Jones.”
Lucas glanced across the foyer as the butler left and found his mother standing there. He buckled just a fraction at the sight of her. The last time he saw her, it had been at his father’s funeral. When she’d stood at his casket, snow and rain swirling around her furs, her dark gaze narrowed on him. He’d never felt so lost in his life.
And he’d run.
“Mother,” he said, pulling from the warmth of Diana’s presence and toward the coldness of hers.
She flinched at that one word. Turned her face away a moment before she refocused on him. “Back to do your worst, are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
He stopped moving. “To do my duty,” he answered, for that was not untrue. It just wasn’t the one she would think of when that word was said.
“Duty,” she hissed. “What would you know about duty? You’ll drag this title and all it stands for to the ground before you’re finished.”
Lucas did not respond, for what she accused was often exactly what he’d wanted to do over the years. Burn it all down. Leave nothing behind of the name or the title or the prestige that was part of it.
Now it was different. Somehow it had changed. He might not want to be Willowby, but he had no desire to destroy what Willowby represented.
“I assure you—”
“You’re bringing your whore to the ducal estate.”
Behind him, Diana gasped, and he glared at his mother. “You might want to be very careful who you call a whore, madam.”
She swung on him. He could have dodged it, but he didn’t. He let her hand crack against his cheek, felt the heat of it, the sting, and did not move or turn away.
“Lucas!” Diana cried out.
He lifted a hand so she would not come to him or interfere. If this was what his mother needed, he would not deny her.
“Why couldn’t you just stay away?” the duchess whispered, her tone harsh though there were tears in her eyes.
He held that teary gaze and saw everything she’d been through in her life. Everything she’d put him through, as well. He inclined his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly but firmly.
Her lips parted, almost in surprise. Her expression relaxed just a fraction and she whispered, “I suppose we all are. Now I’m going to the dower house. Goodbye.”
She strode past him then. Past Diana, without even looking at her. Out the front door to the carriage that had just been emptied. She shouted an order in a trembling tone and it took off.
For a moment, all was silent. The only sound was the ticking of the large clock in the foyer, counting out the unending seconds since his mother struck him.
Finally, Diana stepped forward. “Oh, Lucas,” she whispered as she gently took his hand.
He looked down at her. There was no pity on her face, not like many would have shown, or the gossipy interest that the aristocrats of his acquaintance would have expressed. There was only understanding, much deeper than before they came here.
There was only empathy.
Part of him wanted to lean into that. To let her wrap herself around him, bleed out the anguish like so many less talented healers had tried to bleed out his injury and pain. He wanted her to fill up the holes in his heart and his soul.
But he couldn’t. He extracted his hand from hers and said, “I have some letters to write. Jones!” The butler appeared before Diana could reply. “Take Miss Oakford to the chamber I requested in my letter. Thank you.”
Then he turned and left before either of them could comment or see how deeply he had been affected. And how much he had to regret.
Diana paced the room she had been given, but it did not help her burn off any of the nervous energy she felt. There were too many things going on in her mind to feel calm or rational.
First off, the chamber was a palace. It was almost the same size as her entire cottage. She felt as though she had shrunk down and now there would be no escape. It was also too fine, even for the mistress she was pretending to be. Everything was sterling silver and gold flake and fine muslin and silk. She was so accustomed to plain and serviceable that anything more felt almost foreign to her.
What was also foreign to her was the fact that Lucas’s room was connected to hers through an antechamber. She’d discovered that fact the moment she’d been left alone in this museum of a house. When she’d opened the door, she’d found two maids putting away his things. The way they’d stopped talking the moment she entered the room made it clear what they’d been gossiping about.
She sank into the closest chair and covered her eyes. She’d told him she could handle all this, but now she questioned that statement made with all the bravado of a woman who didn’t know what she was getting into.
But could she tell him that? No, of course not. Firstly, because she would have to admit he’d been right. Secondly, because he had much larger issues to deal with.
She shuddered as she thought of the scene with his mother in the foyer. She had few memories of her own mother, but they were all warm and soft and gentle. Watching as the Duchess of Willowby swung at full force at her son, that Lucas had let her do so, had hurt her heart in a deep and powerful way. The woman hadn’t even asked about his limp, as if she didn’t care that her only son was injured, had almost died.
Diana’s hands shook with empathy and anger on his behalf. There was so much about the man she didn’t know, couldn’t understand because he locked her out of his life and his secrets. His body? Oh, that was hers. She had no doubt she could have his body any time she crooked her finger.
But his mind? His soul? His heart? His secrets?
Those were off limits.
“I suppose a mistress is the best way I could be described,” she muttered. “Or what his mother called me: a whore.”
The idea stung, for when Lucas touched her she felt so much more than that between them. But she pushed that aside. She was here to help him. Right now he had to be hunched over a desk, his muscles getting tight and painful.
So she had to go to him. That was all there was to it. Not to ask him to share with her. She knew better than to do that. But just to…help. She just wanted to help.
She left the chamber and wove her way through the estate. Somehow she found the stairs, but she was soon lost in the twisting and turning hallways and doorways that seemed to lead to nowhere.
How in the world could anyone get accustomed to this life?
She had no answer to that, but didn’t need one, for as she turned yet another corner she discovered an open door ahead. She saw the flicker of firelight reflecting on the wood and sighed as she moved toward it.
What she found was a study. As she entered the room, she was hit with the scent of old cigars and long-burned fires. The room was pompous and stuffy and nothing like the man who sat behind the huge mahogany desk in the back. Lucas was hunched over, scribbling a note with a massive feather pen that he dashed in and out of the ink beside him with little care to drips he dragged across the page.
“Lucas?” she said softly.
He jumped and jerked his head up to look at her. For the first time since she met him, he had been stripped of his boundaries, his walls, of all the training he’d received as a spy that kept him safe and separate from anything unpleasant around him. His pain was clear on every angle of his handsome face. It went deeper than mere physical injury and she understood it down to her very core.
It was the same as her own pain. Mirror images brought on by what she assumed were far different circumstances.
“I don’t want to talk about anything,” he said as he warmed a stick of wax over the candle beside him. He sealed his letter and quickly stamped it shut, then stood.
“No?” she asked, tracking his every restless move as he came around the desk, letter in hand, toward her. “That’s good. Neither do I.”
He drew in a few breaths and some of the energy went out of him. He slowly began to turn back to the man she’d known, the one she’d given herself to. Not the reluctant duke anymore, not the unwanted son. Just Lucas.
“Then what do you want?” he asked, and from his tone he knew full well the power and double meaning of those words.
She hesitated, for the idea of having him, making love to him, was tempting indeed. Especially since she had spent the previous night in her own bed, separated from him because she knew this thing between them was spiraling out of control.
But right now she wasn’t certain that sex was what he needed. At least not the only thing he needed.
“I want to walk,” she responded.
His face fell so quickly it was almost comical, and she had to hold back a giggle at the expression. “Diana,” he began.
She held up a hand. “On orders of your physician.”
She saw how he wanted to argue with her. How he wanted to refuse what she suggested. But then he just sighed and threw up his arms, almost in surrender. “Very well.”
She drew back. “That’s all? Very well? You aren’t going to give me some treatise on how that isn’t what you want to do?”
He shot her a look. “I’ve never given a treatise in my life.”
Now she couldn’t help but smile as she folded her arms. “Never?”
“Fine.” He shifted his weight. “Once or twice. But to argue with you? I’ve learned that is a fruitless endeavor. Let me ring for Jones and give him this to deliver, and then to the Willowby gardens we’ll go.”
She noted that he said “the Willowby gardens”, not his own, separating himself once more from the title he held. But she made no comment as he moved to the bell by the door. To her pleasure, he rang it not with his good arm, but with his injured one. And though she saw that he flexed his fingers and shook them out a little after he did so, his reaction was nothing like the pain he had exhibited just two weeks before when he first came into her care.
Part of her was happy for that fact, of course. To ease his pain even a fraction was a victory and one that she would savor for the rest of her life.
But the other part felt something darker and sharper and deeper. Part of her felt a great terror at seeing him function so well physically. Because soon she would have no reason to be by his side.
Soon, she would lose this thing between them, this connection that was so tenuous and sometimes perfect. And that was something she had to come to terms with, or risk losing more than she wished to consider.