The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel 3)

She leaned back against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest, glass dangling in one hand. “I was born here.”

“No, you weren’t.”

She lifted a shoulder. Let it fall. “I was born in a coal town in the North Country, and reborn in Boston. Covent Garden’s a proper third to the trio, don’t you think?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re daughter to an earl.”

She smirked. “And you are the one who was so very insistent that my father’s title didn’t count, Your Grace. A title won at cards makes no kind of blue blood, not even when won from Prinny himself.”

The words stung with memory. “I never—”

She stopped the lie with a wave of her glass. “More importantly, Haven, why are you here?”

To rescue you.

Another lie. This woman didn’t need him. In all the time he’d sought her, he’d imagined her fearful. Weak. Ruined. This woman was none of those things. There was nothing cowering about her. Instead, she was all strength.

She was nothing like the woman he’d met on that long-ago night outside the Worthington ball. Except . . . she was. That woman had been bold and brash. She’d stood up to him. She’d drawn him in like a warm flame on a cold night. And for weeks afterward, her smart mouth had tempted him as much as her warm body had.

And then he’d discovered the truth—that none of their courtship was real—and she’d changed. She’d quieted. She’d dimmed. She’d paled.

She’d become someone else, entirely. Because of him.

And now, here, with years’ distance between them, that simpering, quiet bride was gone, returned to the strong, bold woman she’d once been. Stronger. Bolder.

More beautiful.

Not because of him. In spite of him.

There, in the dark tavern, watching her sing, watching her drink, watching her stand up to him, the truth whispered through him. He might have spent three years attempting to find and save her, but she did not need saving.

“Why are you here?”

The answer was simple enough. “We’re not through.”

Her brows shot up, the surprise there in direct opposition to her calm words. “We are, as a matter of fact. We were through two years and seven months ago. Before that. Or do you not remember turning your back on me the moment our vows were spoken? Shall I remind you? Shall I remind you of the way you did it again, in front of an entire garden party? Of what you did after that? With another?”

Of course he remembered.

He remembered it every night, struggling to sleep, desperate to reverse time and stop himself. To tell her the truth instead of the lie his pride insisted upon. If he had, would everything have been different? If he had, would they be happy now?

“How did you know where to find me, Haven?”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“You’re surveying all the taverns in London? And simply happened along?”

“You cannot imagine the world simply ignored the spectacle you gave Parliament. You were seen leaving the House of Lords in a carriage belonging to an American.” He stood, affecting a calm he had not felt in three days, and approached, tossing a look to the man in question. “Caleb Calhoun of Boston. Known pub owner, gambler, and general scoundrel.”

Like an ass, the American bowed. “I like to think of myself as more a specific kind of scoundrel.”

Malcolm raised a brow. “And which kind would that be?”

“The one the ladies adore.”

Mal’s fists clenched, itching to find purchase once more upon the American’s face. “Careful, Calhoun, or you shall find something more than your nose broken.”

Recognition flared in the other man’s gaze, which flickered to Sera and back to him. And Haven saw the truth. Sera didn’t know he’d come for her. The American had never told her. If he had, would she have faced him? Would she have let him win her back?

He opened his mouth, prepared to tell her all. To win her here and now.

And then she said the American’s name.

“Caleb.” The name was soft, her voice filled with the worst kind of censure—the kind laced with love.

Regret and doubt shot through Mal. She couldn’t love this man. Not when she’d loved him once. She had loved him once, hadn’t she?

He pushed the thought from his head, hating it and the way it made him waver. Changed the topic. “Calhoun owns two properties in London. One is a residence. I went there first, only to be told the duchess was not at home.” He looked at the American, taking in his crossed arms and his smug smirk. “She’s through living with another man, by the way.”

The American’s brows rose, his gaze sliding to Sera, who sipped calmly at her drink. “I do enjoy the fact that you think either you or Caleb has a say in what I do.”

“The other is a new tavern, barely weeks old, already praised for the nightly entertainment—whatever that means. Spends his days here, with a woman. Tall, dark, beautiful.” He drew closer, hating himself for coming here. Wishing he could leave her. Wishing he could take her with him. “I hope you wear a mask.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll ruin your reputation?” She paused, then said, “Go home, Duke. There is no reason for you to be here.”

No reason but that he had not drawn a full breath for two years and seven months, and now, air had returned, fresh and welcome. And all he wanted was to breathe it in. “It’s only natural I be concerned.”

She narrowed her gaze on his. “You will of course understand why I don’t for one moment believe you were actually concerned.”

The American offered her a small grunt of encouragement, and Haven’s jaw set. Irritated with their audience, he drew even closer to her, nearly touching the narrow bar protecting them from each other. He repeated, softly, “We’re not through, Sera.”

She looked over his shoulder. “Caleb.”

He loathed the other man’s name on her tongue, loathed the trust in the breathy word. The faith. Faith she’d never given him.

Faith he’d never earned.

He turned to face the American, aware that men might be willing to kill for Sera. But the other man had not moved. He stood at a distance, hands on his hips, a soldier ready to strike.

“Leave us,” Seraphina finished.

For a moment, Haven thought she was speaking to him.

He should leave. It was best for both of them.

But, suddenly, he was ready to do battle.

There was no battle to be had, however, because she was looking at Calhoun, the calm, quiet American who seemed willing to give her everything for which she asked. Just as Malcolm once had.

The American’s brows rose.

Sera nodded.

And that was enough. Calhoun turned and left the room like a fool. No. Not a fool. A king. Because in that decision to leave without looking back, there was an unfathomable amount of trust, born of the knowledge that when he returned, she would be there, waiting for him.

Another thing Malcolm had once known himself.

Calhoun made his way from the room, the curtain through which he had pushed still swaying behind him when Mal said, “So the American is your lapdog? Goes where you tell him?”

“He trusts me,” she said. “’Tis a glorious luxury in a man.”

The words at once shamed him and infuriated him.

“What do you want? Covent Garden was never your haunt. And even if it was, you always made an impressive effort to avoid any doorways I might darken.”

“That’s not true,” he said, wishing they were anywhere but here. “I remember a few times I wanted to be nowhere but with you.”

“That was before you decided you wanted nothing to do with me,” she said.

You lied, he wanted to say. You lied and then you left. But it wasn’t so simple. The truth ended with, I chased you away.

He should leave her. Give them each freedom from the other. How many times had he told himself he should stop looking for her? How many times had

he been unable to do so?

And now that he’d found her, he knew he’d never be able to leave her.

“Why are you here, Malcolm?”

The name shivered through him. She was the only woman who’d ever called him by his name. He’d not even been Malcolm to his mother, for whom he was nothing but triumph—the future duke. But Sera always seemed uninterested in the title.

Even when it seemed the title was all she’d been interested in.

And now, hearing his name on her lips for the first time in years, he was at once desperate for the sound of it—for the man he’d once been in the shadow of it—and filled with anger for the way she wielded it. Soft and lilting and entirely too personal.

As though she were his wife in truth.

He gritted his teeth. Answered her question. “I’m here to fetch you.”

“I’ve no interest in being fetched,” she said.

“Then you shouldn’t have come back.”

“I came back to set us both free.” She drank again, finishing the amber liquid in the small, heavy glass. “I’ve plans. A life to live. I could have disappeared forever.”

“Why didn’t you?”

For a moment, he thought she might answer. The truth was there, suddenly, shot across her face. But he couldn’t read her the way he’d once been able to. And then she said, “I suppose I thought you deserved better.”

It was a lie.

He didn’t deserve better; he deserved much, much worse.

Which meant only one thing. She was hiding something.

His gaze narrowed on her. “Better, as in public embarrassment as a cuckold? Better, as in a wife who so loathes me that she finds divorce more palatable than a dukedom?”

She smirked. “You say that as though I have any claim at all to the dukedom. You made it more than clear that I was not welcome in your world, Your Grace.”

“You left before—” He stopped himself from finishing the thought.

A long moment passed, emotion absent on her face. “I left before you could send me away, like unwanted property.”

“I wouldn’t have—”

“Of course you would have. And I didn’t want it. I didn’t want the anger. I had enough of that myself. And I didn’t want the regret. I had enough of that, too. And what else was there? Pity? No, thank you. I wished for a future free of all that. And you should, as well.”

The words rioted through him. He hadn’t wanted to send her away. He’d wanted to keep her forever. He’d grieved for her, dammit. For years. He’d grieved for what they might have been. And when she’d left—he’d never admit this to anyone—he’d pitied himself.

She lifted a flint box and came around the bar, making for the stage. “We’re through here, Duke. Go home to your estate and plan your bright future. Leave me to mine, and think of how lucky you are that you are being offered a second chance. Find a new duchess!” she offered, as though the idea were an excellent one. “And when October comes, bring the petition for divorce to the floor. Paint me an adulteress. And let’s get this business done.”

Dammit, he didn’t want another future. He wanted the one that had tempted him all those years ago. Her future. Theirs. He’d sought it, dammit, the world over. He wanted to scream the truth at her. That he’d been in Boston. That he’d searched the Continent. That he hadn’t slept in two years, seven months. That he’d only ever wanted her.

And he might have, if it hadn’t seemed that she wanted nothing to do with him.

“You wish your adultery to be made public?” He was riveted to her grace as she began to light the candles on the stage.

“The House of Lords certainly won’t allow the dissolution of our marriage to be on your actions, and I would not be the first wife to bear such a brunt in order to get what she wishes.”

But it was not what he wished. He wished the opposite. A marriage in truth.

“The powerful collude, Duke. They connive and they scheme to get what they want.” She looked to him, inscrutable. “And the proof of it is how well they suspect it in others.”

He didn’t care if she’d schemed. Not anymore.

“I want my divorce,” she said. “I’ve a future before me.”

“With your American?”

She did not reply, and he watched her as she lit the candles, golden light spreading like starlight through her mahogany curls, her words echoing through him.

He wanted to be her future. Which meant he’d have to win her.

Find a new duchess.

He approached her once more, weaving through the tables.

She met his gaze, unwavering. Proud. “Leave, Haven. Caleb won’t be happy if we open the doors and you’re here. There’s nothing worse for business than a duke.”

Find a new duchess.

“I’ll leave on one condition,” he said, the words coming as quickly as thoughts formed.

She lifted a brow.

“Come with me.”

She laughed, low and long and somehow full of knowledge, as though she knew what he was to do before he knew himself. But then, it had always been that way between them. “And what then?”

“Come to the country. You give me six weeks. Until Parliament is back in session.”

She turned back to the candles. “What is this, some grand plan to woo me again? As though we are in some kind of romantic novel?”

Yes.

He was smart enough to stay quiet.

“We’re not in a romantic novel, Haven. This is not a love story.”

“Because you are in one with your American?”

“Because I’ve no desire to be in one. Ever again.”

Again. He would think on that word another time. Cling to it. “Fine,” he replied. “But you are in a marriage with me, and you vowed to obey.”

She leveled him with a look. “And you vowed to honor.”

“This is my offer. Six weeks, and you get your divorce.” It was a lie, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Her gaze narrowed. “What do you intend to do with six weeks of my company?”

“I intend to put it to good use,” he said, the answer coming even as he spoke it. “I intend for you to find your replacement.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and it was his turn to feel self-satisfied. To feel as though he’d won. His turn to smirk.

“What does that mean?”

“Just what I said,” he replied. “You come to the country and spend six weeks seeking your replacement.”

“You want me to matchmake you.”

He enjoyed the disbelief in her words, the way it helped him to regain his footing. “You must admit, it would save me a great deal of effort.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You do not think such an arrangement would be . . . impractical?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure it would not be at all awkward for the poor poppets eager for the attention of a duke to be closed into a country house, playing charades with his first wife—whom he is about to divorce.”

“I think it would be much more likely that they would find it a relief. After all, if we are able to coexist, perhaps I can avoid the worst of the divorce.”

One sleek brow rose. “You do not think that your dukedom will be a balm to your wretched reputation?”

“I should like them to have proof that I have not mistreated you.”

“Mistreatment is not only external.”

Guilt slammed through him, punctuated by the memory of the sound of the carriage door slamming shut as he sent her away. Of the sound of her tears on the day she returned. Of the sound of the silence that fell when she left him for good.

Not for good, though.

She was back.

He swallowed the emotion and met her gaze. “You want your divorce, do you not?”

She watched him as she seemed to consider her words. Finally, she said, all calm, “I do.”

“Find your replacement, Sera. And it is yours

.”

It was a mad plan. Pure idiocy. And he would have been unsurprised if she’d told him so. Still, he held his breath, waiting for her reply, watching the way candlelight flickered over her skin, casting her into light and shadow, a remarkable beauty.

But she did not tell him so. Instead, she nodded her agreement. “Now leave.”

He gave her what she wanted and left without a word, making preparations to woo his wife.

Chapter 8

Season’s Slowest Scandal: Time Marches for Tick Tock Talbot!

April 1833

Three years, four months earlier

“Beethoven?”

Seraphina looked up from the pianoforte to find her sister Sophie across the conservatory, a piece of music in one hand, an expectant look on her face.

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Too bombastic.”

Sophie returned to the stack of music. “Hymns?”

“Too pious.”

“Children’s ballads?”

Sera shook her head.

“Mozart?”

“Too . . . Mozart,” Sera sighed.

Sophie cut her a look. “Oh, yes. No one likes Mozart.”

Sera laughed and toyed at the keys of the piano, playing a little impromptu tune. “Thomas Moore.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “It’s always Thomas Moore with you. Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wished to marry him.” She lifted a well-worn piece of music and walked it across the room, squeezing herself onto the little tufted bench where Sera already sat and setting the page to the ornate music rack.

Sera reached out to lovingly smooth the paper. “If he weren’t double my age and married to an actress, I’d be inclined to do just that, honestly.” She fingered the keys, finding the opening notes to the song, loving the way they washed over her. She didn’t need the sheet music. Not for this, or any of the other pieces from Thomas Moore.

She closed her eyes and played from memory while her sister replied, “Nonsense. You’d never give up your perfect duke.”

Sera went warm at the words and missed a note. “He’s not my duke.”

Except she rather thought he was. Even if she did not think of him as a duke at all. He wasn’t a duke. He was Malcolm. Her Malcolm. All smiles and touches and kisses like a promise. And every one of them for her. They’d seen each other dozens of times in the six weeks since they met, in public and private, and every time, it had felt as though it was the two of them alone. Like magic.