Page 56 of A Duke in the Rough

“Of course.” He speared a piece of beef.

“You said you are my ally. How much has Mr. Merrick told you of our past . . . acquaintance?”

“There is no need to mince words with me. If you’re worried about the unsavory gossip, don’t. Middlebury tried to bring it up with me, but I informed him it was utterly false, and if I heard him trying to spread it among my guests, he would be summarily escorted out.”

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Did Mr. Merricktell you ...”

He shook his head. “Merrick would never take advantage of a woman. However, I do know you were both desperately in love.” Sliding the meat into his mouth, he studied her. Finished chewing, he dabbed the serviette to his lips. “You don’t dispute it. From your face, I see your feelings haven’t changed.

“Do you always speak so frankly, sir? Among polite society, some find such forwardness rude.”

His dark eyebrows quirked.

She began to see why Charlotte found him vexing. “My feelings are of little consequence. It was I who broke our attachment. By rights, he should despise me, and I believe any residual feelings Mr. Merrick may have had for me have been replaced.” She glanced toward Anne, still in silent repose.

“You can’t really believe he’s fallen for Miss Weatherby?”

Under other circumstances, Honoria would have laughed at Burwood’s incredulous tone, but Drake’s parting words were clear enough. He bore guilt for Anne’s accident, and if she so desired him asa husband, he would marry her to atone for his perceived sins. “Perhaps not love, but responsibility. And unless his years in India have changed him drastically, I believe he feels his course has been set.”

Burwood mumbled something that sounded vaguely like the curse he uttered right before Anne’s accident.

And she knew from his demeanor she had the right of it.

Drake pushedMajor hard as he made his way to Lyme, all the while his mind bouncing between Honoria and Anne Weatherby. He’d been a fool. A damn fool.

Honoria—calm, controlled, someone he could depend on. Someone who would help him navigate the rough waters of English society. But more importantly, someone who still loved him. It wasn’t her love that was inconstant. No. That had been as unwavering as his own stubborn and wounded pride.

Anne—young, vibrant, and reckless. More in love with the idea of love than in love with him. How could she be when she didn’t really know him?

If—no—whenshe woke up, he would tell her everything about himself. Well, notquiteeverything. Knowledge that he was actually Burwood would color her decision. No, that would come after—andif—she still wanted him. Could she accept a man who was more interested in quiet nights sitting by a fire and reading than one who would escort her to soirées and balls? One who was still uncomfortable in the ways of theton?

Oh, he would learn to manage. He accepted that. He couldn’t isolate her from everything, not if he wanted to make a difference in Parliament. As remote a possibility as that seemed, he would have to mingle among the elite in order for his voice to be heard. And a diplomatic and charming wife was necessary. Not to mention his need for an heir if he wanted the Pendrake line to continue.

The last thought generated another set of concerns. Would he be able to be the type of husband she deserved, or would he think ofanother redhead each time he took her in his arms? Would he imagine Honoria’s lips as he kissed and made love to Anne?

He would be trading one guilt for another more insidious secret shame. Would Anne see through his attempts and grow to resent him? Would he grow to resent her for simply not being Honoria?

Gah!

He would go mad if he continued to dwell on it.

Cool breezes blew the scent of sea air toward him as he crested a hill. Lyme’s silhouette emerged beneath him, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun, and he began his descent. After locating the home of Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Weatherby’s friend, he was informed the ladies had decided to escape the heat of the house for a walk along the Cobb.

He left his horse in the care of Mr. Thompson’s groom and set out on foot toward the seawall. Waves crashed against the stones and dotted his face with the salty sea spray. Gulls squawked above him. He scanned the groups of people walking along and stopped a few, asking if they knew a Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Weatherby.

“I passed Mrs. Thompson and her friend not moments before,” a portly gentleman said, pointing in the direction Drake was heading.

Drake tipped his hat and hurried to catch them. “Mrs. Weatherby,” he called to two women strolling arm-in-arm.

When the woman turned and they came face-to-face, he knew immediately she was Anne’s mother. A lock of her red hair had escaped from her bonnet and fluttered against her cheek, her blue eyes inquisitively searching his. It was like glimpsing Anne thirty years into the future.

Her lips curved in a tentative smile. “Do I know you, sir?”

He removed his hat. “No, madam. My name is Drake Merrick, the Duke of Burwood’s man of business. I come from Hartridge House with a message from your son.” Coward that he was, he didn’t have the heart to break the news to her himself, but handed her Andrew’s note.

Yet something in his eyes must have given him away. Her hand trembled when she took the missive from him. “Before I open this, sir, please tell me no one has died.”

He answered truthfully, at least to the best of his knowledge, “Noone has died.” The wordyetburned on his tongue, and he prayed it would remain there forever.

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