London, June 1881
Six months after he’d left London, brimming with the thrill of a new mission, Kit Hargrove, the Duke of Leeds, returned in ignominy. He didn’t return to legions of admirers or effusive headlines in The Times or the gratitude of Her Majesty. He didn’t return a hero; quite the opposite, as his arrival on England’s shores had been shrouded in secrecy. And he certainly didn’t return to the loving arms of his abandoned wife, who likely never gave a damn if she ever saw him again.
He returned alone save for the company of the servants he’d employed for the dubious task of assisting him on his journey. He returned, uncertain if he would ever be able to regain the proper use of his left leg again. Unable to walk himself to the front door of his palatial London townhome without assistance.
He returned and knocked on the bloody door of his own home as if he were a visitor.
And a behemoth bearing an ominous glare and an ugly scar on his cheek opened the portal. “Her Grace is not at home,” he announced grimly, and then slammed the portal closed.
Devil take it.
Kit gritted his teeth. He was weak, he was weary, and he was currently at the last place he wished to be, undertaking the most demeaning task his mind could fathom. He leaned on his cane, exhaling as a fresh onslaught of pain speared him. Of all days that he could be denied entry to his own home, this was not the goddamn day he would’ve chosen.
He rapped on the door again.
The rude, mountain of a man masquerading as a butler reappeared, scowling. “Told you. Her Grace isn’t at home. Sod off.”
Kit was prepared this time. He caught the door’s slam with his opened palm even though it nearly cost him his balance and what remained of his pride. He steadied himself and glared at the bastard barring him entrance.
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded.
“Do I care?” The insolent bastard returned. “No.”
“You’ll care when I sack you,” he growled. “I’m the Duke of Leeds. Your employer. Now grant me entrance at once.”
The mountain’s eyes narrowed. “We aren’t expecting the duke. He’s abroad.”
“Behold. He has returned,” Kit deadpanned.
The blighter remained unconvinced. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Shall I summon the bloody queen?”
“Ludlow,” came a lilting alto voice with an accent that wasn’t quite proper. “I need your assistance with Lady Philomena Whiskers. I think she’s about to give birth to a litter of kittens.”
Surely that sweet voice didn’t belong to her. And she was talking to the varmint who blocked the doorway to his home as if he were a lord.
From behind the mountain, Kit caught the swirl of navy silk, a glimpse of chestnut braid, a smooth brow, one wide, green eye. Oh, bloody hell. It was her, alright. He may not recognize her voice, but he would never forget those eyes. Green and gold with flecks of cinnamon, and fringed with decadent lashes.
“Your Grace?” came her hesitant voice.
It would seem that she, on the other hand, didn’t quite recognize him.
How lowering.
“Madam,” he bit out. “I’ve traveled an ocean. I’m injured and tired and severely lacking in the sort of patience and understanding one would require in a circumstance such as this.”
“Do step aside, Ludlow,” she ordered the mountain.
The mountain complied with great reluctance and another scowl. And there she stood in his place. She was lovelier than he remembered. Her hair was plaited in a basket weave and worn high atop her head. Her gown was navy silk with bottle-green underskirts, lace and ribbon adorning a bodice that couldn’t help but draw attention to her narrow waist and generous bosom. Even in his weakened state, he felt an unexpected, odd flare of awareness as he took her in.
“Your Grace,” she said at last, her too-wide pink lips pressed into a severe frown. “You look ill.”
Well, hell. He’d been standing about, thinking how remarkably fine she looked while she’d been taking in his gaunt frame, pale skin, and cane. He was a wreck and he knew it. He leaned heavily on the cane now. “I’ve been injured. Will you grant me entrance, or am I to stand in the street like a bloody tradesman?”
She blinked, color blooming in her cheeks. “Did you suffer a hunting injury, Your Grace?”
Clever minx. He gave her his haughtiest stare. “Yes.”
His wife took a step back, allowing the door to open fully. “Come in, then. I suppose I cannot deny you entrance.”
With the aid of his servants, he stepped over the threshold. But the effort of walking to the door, combined with the length of time he’d been forced to wait at the door and the crippling pain searing him had made him even weaker. He swayed, losing his balance, humiliation stinging him simultaneously.
How had he ended up here, in this moment, standing before the wife he’d never wanted like a bloody invalid, a strange butler presiding over his disgrace?
Her gaze raked the length of him, going wider still. “Oh dear heavens. His Grace is bleeding. Ludlow, have my chambers prepared for him, if you please.”
He glanced down to see that his wound had indeed begun to weep once more, soaking through his trousers. Damn it. “Prepare my chambers,” he commanded the insolent mountain, gainsaying her.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” his duchess said without a hint of remorse.
What the bloody hell?
“There’s no longer a bed in your chamber,” she explained. “It’s the main dog chamber now. Even if there were still a bed, I doubt you’d wish to convalesce there.”
“The dog chamber,” he repeated, wondering if he’d lost his mind along with the blood that had seeped from his body.
“Yes. It will have to be my chamber, I’m afraid, or nothing at all.” She turned to give the butler a look that was far too intimate for his liking. “There’s no helping it. You’ll have to move Lady Philomena Whiskers somewhere else for the birthing.”
Dogs and cats and a mountain of a butler who was too familiar with his wife. And he no longer had a bed. Of course, this was precisely the homecoming he should have expected.
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