Page 82 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

The rules. It always came back to that. His whole life was lived by rules and codes of conduct. Of honor. And duty.

Of all the duties you may hold, surely the greatest one is—must be—to show others, by example, what is right.

But how did he know what was right? Ever since Irene’s stinging set-down, he had been pondering that question. On the train journey to Hampshire and during the three days since, he had thought of little else. Haunted by self-doubt, he’d wandered the woods of his ancestral home, toured the farms and the cottages, walked the house and the gardens, trying to regain amid these touchstones his sense of right and wrong, a renewing of his purpose, and the meaning of his place in the world. He’d never had cause to doubt or even consider these things until a fiery beauty with radical views had come along, questioning everything he thought he knew, and pressing him for answers that could not be found anywhere in his previous experience. Irene shook the very foundations of his existence.

Now, he was standing in front of the previous duke, hoping that in his father’s face, he would find answers, but instead, he felt more than ever before the burdens of his position.

Mama was to marry Foscarelli tomorrow, and when she did, the lives of all the family would be forever changed. He could not prevent that. The only thing he could do now was set the best course for the future of his family. But what was that course? Only a few days ago, it had seemed self-evident, but now it was lost in a sea of conflicting interests.

Did it ever occur to you that as head of the family, your own best action might be to support your mother and attempt to persuade the other members of your family to do the same? She is your mother, Henry. She needs you, she needs your support, but you withhold it, and for what?

For rules, of course. To preserve the way things ought to be. For tradition and duty. But not, in this case, for what was right. Irene’s words had stung like a whip, but he’d wholeheartedly deserved the lashing. For now, looking into his father’s implacable face, he knew his decision had been his father’s, not his own, and it had been the wrong one. He was not his father, and he did not want to be.

He looked at the portrait beside his father’s, and the sight of Mama’s beloved face gave him all the more reason to berate himself. His mother had not loved his father. She had tried, but Papa, as everyone in their family was well aware, had been a difficult man to love. Henry had always known his parents had married for suitability and duty, but he had never dwelled on it, for in his world, love was a secondary consideration in marriage, and if it happened, it was a happy accident. Mama had done her duty; she had married the suitable man, provided him with the required heir and four other children besides, but she had never been allowed to love him.

Now, she had her first and perhaps only chance to marry for love, and his way of dealing with that fact had been his father’s way—to block her at every turn. He looked again at the stern-faced image beside his mother’s, and he feared he was more like the man before him than he’d ever wanted to believe. I want to love you, Henry. And you make it impossible.

Irene’s words echoing through his mind forced him to think of Elena, for a decade ago, his wife could have said those very same words to him. As a youth of nineteen, he’d been inflamed by passion for a sweet and innocent girl. He had married her, he had bedded her, but he had never given her his heart. Instead, he had hidden her away, a shameful secret to be kept from the world, and passion had not transmuted into love; instead, it had crumbled into dust. He had always blamed the failure of his marriage on the fact that he had married out of his class, but now he knew that was not his true sin at all.

Do you have a heart? Forgive me for being skeptical, but I have seen little evidence of that particular organ.

Henry lowered his head into his hand. He had a heart. He knew that because right now it ached in his chest like an open wound. But of course Irene had never seen it. How could she, when he took such pains to keep it hidden, to keep it in his own hands and under his own control?

He loved Irene. He had been in love with her almost from the very beginning—falling, he suspected, just about the moment she’d called him a lily of the field and denounced him and everything he stood for. And ever since, he’d been doing all he could to bring her closer, maneuvering her into his world and even into his very house just to be near her, but he hadn’t deemed what he felt to be love. No, in his own mind, he’d called it lust, and by doing that, he’d been able to convince himself that giving his heart would not be required.

Footsteps sounded at the end of the gallery, and he lifted his head, turning as Angela came down the stairs. She caught sight of him and paused on the landing, frowning. “Henry? What are you doing over there?”

“Thinking about my life, my duty, and what it all means.”

She frowned, understandably puzzled by such an enigmatic answer, and started down the gallery toward him. “What’s brought this about?” she asked as she halted beside him. “Some ducal crisis?”

“You could say that.”

She turned toward the painting all the wall. “And you’re looking to Papa’s portrait for guidance?”

“In a way, though not perhaps in the way he might have hoped. I am thinking of the man that I am, and what of me I will be passing on to the next generation.”

She gasped, turning to look at him, her gray eyes filled with delight. “Henry! Who is she?”

“Women,” he groaned. “You jump from an innocuous statement to a foregone conclusion in the space of a heartbeat.”

“It’s Miss Deverill, isn’t it? Oh, I hope so, for I do like her.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Sarah does, too. Carlotta doesn’t,” she added, laughing. “A fact which makes me like her ever more. And if you love her, then, well, of course, I shall adore her.”

She gave him an inquiring glance, but he refused to rise to the bait. “All my life,” he muttered, “I’ve prided myself on my circumspection and discretion. I am humbled at every turn these days, it seems.”

“Well, you’ve hardly made a secret of your interest.”

Fear clutched at him. “What do you mean?”

“You let her steer the ship, Henry! Good God, I saw that, and I about fell over the side, I was so shocked. When’s the wedding?”

“You go too fast, Angie. There is no wedding.”

“Oh.” For a moment, she looked thoroughly let down, then she brightened. “You’re right. I go too fast. You have only known her a few weeks. But she is from a respectable family, on her mother’s side anyway, though she is a bit more . . . independent than our lot’s used to.”

---