Page 42 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

Chapter 10

As Henry walked away from Irene Deverill and left the library, desire and anger thrumming through his body with equal force, he saw that there was a facet of his own character he’d never acknowledged before. As he strode past the members of his family gathered around the piano and departed the drawing room, oblivious to their voices calling his name, he saw this perverse aspect of his nature with a clarity he’d never before possessed.

He was irresistibly attracted to impossible women.

It was a galling thing to admit. Until now, he’d been able to regard his passion for Elena as a tragic, once-in-a-lifetime incident, a folly borne of lusty youth and romantic ideals that would never be repeated. He thought he had learned his lesson, that he’d become not only an older man, but also a wiser one, and that he was beyond being tempted by women for whom his life held no appeal.

Irene Deverill, however, was forcing him to admit that he’d been lying to himself for an entire decade. For even as she had scorned the civilities and discretions that were a given in society, even as his anger and defenses had arisen in response, so had his desire. To know that he could once again want a woman who had no use for him or the world he inhabited was a shattering, humbling realization.

Henry strode along the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the house, grappling with this truth about himself. What was it, he wondered in exasperation as he stepped out into the fine summer night, that made him yearn for women who were so clearly not for him?

Damn it all, he knew hundreds of suitable girls, girls who would be happy to have him, girls who understood his life and could share it. Why couldn’t he lust after one of them? Why this attraction to women so below his station, so outside his circle, so wrong for him?

Perhaps, he thought with a hint of desperation, it was just physical. If so, he ought to acquire a mistress, he supposed. The notion did not appeal. He’d had two since Elena’s death, but both had been short-lived, empty affairs, borne of the need for release and nothing more. But even as he hoped that was the case here, he feared it was not. This seemed a deeper yearning, one that lurked in the dark places of his soul. A yearning for something . . . more.

He stopped on the sidewalk, cursing his own greed. Good God, he’d already been blessed with more gifts than most men could dream of. To be unsatisfied showed a callous disregard for the many who were not so fortunate as he. And yet, even as Henry stared into the inky depths of Hyde Park that lay beyond the street lamps and reminded himself to be grateful for all that he had, he felt that same pull within him toward something else, something he wanted and could never have. And he didn’t even know quite what it was.

Whatever the reason, Miss Deverill aroused in him passions that he feared could lead both of them down a path he’d walked before, a path that could not bring anything but misery to either party, a path he had no intention of walking ever again.

He rubbed a hand over his face and worked to put things into proper perspective. This situation would only exist for one fortnight. He could withstand even the darkest of desires for two weeks, surely.

With that reminder, Henry resumed walking, his steps carrying him down Park Lane, across Mount Street, up Duke Street, and around Grosvenor Square. He didn’t know how long he was away, but by the time he once again emerged onto Upper Brook Street and reentered his own home, the yearning within him was banked beneath his usual surface civility, and he was once again the master of both his body and mind.

Still, he reflected, pausing on the sidewalk to stare up at his well-lit drawing room and one unmistakable, laughing face amidst the others framed in the window, perhaps he ought to avoid being alone with Miss Deverill, if possible. Just to be sure.

The following morning, Irene’s day began the same way it always did—with a light tap on her door and the clink of porcelain on a tray. She opened her eyes, but when she did, she found the view a bit disorienting, for the slim girl in cap and apron who bustled in with morning tea was definitely not their rotund parlor maid, Annie, and it took Irene a moment to remember where she was.

In the duke’s house. Ugh. She rolled onto her back with a sigh, remembering the events that had brought her here. It might seem like a ghastly dream, but unfortunately, it was all too real.

“Morning tea, miss,” the girl said in a soft voice, setting the tray on the table beneath the window and pulling back the curtains just enough to let in a bit more light.

“Good morning,” Irene answered, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. She felt terribly groggy, which was understandable, given that it had taken her hours to fall asleep with that man’s dismissive opinion of her work ringing in her ears. “What time is it?”

The girl, already by the door, stopped and turned. “Quarter past eight o’clock, miss.”

Stunned, Irene shoved back the counterpane and turned, rolling her legs over the side of the bed to stand up. “Heavens,” she mumbled, starting toward the chiffonier, “I’m terribly late. I must dress.”

“Very good, miss. I’ll send Mrs. Norton to you, shall I?”

Irene paused in the act of opening a drawer and straightened, looking over her shoulder at the girl, perplexed. “Mrs. Who?”

“Mrs. Norton, miss. She’s lady’s maid to the duchess. Her Grace gave instructions that Mrs. Norton was to tend you during your stay since you’ve not brought your own maid with you.”

“No, no, that’s all right.” She returned her attention to the contents of the cupboard in front of her. “My thanks to the duchess,” she added, pulling out a white shirtwaist and dark blue skirt, “but I wouldn’t dream of depriving her of her maid.”

This seemed to baffle the poor girl. “You don’t want her at all then?”

Honestly, Irene thought in exasperated humor, as she closed one door of the chiffonier and opened another, what did these people find so baffling about dressing oneself? It wasn’t that hard. “No,” she answered, adding underclothes to the pile in her arms. “Is my sister awake?”

“I don’t know, miss. I brought your tea first, of course. When you’re ready for breakfast, you’ll find it in the morning room. The footmen start bringing it in about half past eight, but you’ll find the warming dishes on the sideboard until half past ten.”

Irene’s stomach rumbled at the mention of breakfast, but she knew she didn’t have time for it. “Thank you,” she said, setting her clothes on the bed. “You may go.”

“Very good, miss.”

The maid departed, and Irene went into the bathroom to wash her face, hands, and neck. She then began to dress, glad that for her own daily uniform, she didn’t have to corset herself as tightly as she’d had to do for her evening gown last night. Fashionable clothes required such tight lacing, and she wasn’t accustomed to that anymore.

After she’d finished dressing, she gulped down her tea, pinned up her hair, and slid a light blue jacket over her shirtwaist. She knotted a tie around her throat, placed a straw boater on her head, and skewered it in place with a hatpin, then crossed back through the bath, intending to say good-bye to Clara. But with her hand raised to tap on the door, Irene changed her mind. Sleeping in was a luxury they hadn’t been able to afford for years, and it wasn’t as if her sister had to be across town in less than an hour. Why disturb her?

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