Page 89 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
“I was never Lucas’s lover, Lady Juliet.”
The quiet words sliced through her rising hysteria like a knife through butter.
Shaking, bewildered, she turned to face the woman. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Nobody other than Lucas does. He’s a man of unshakable honor, so much honor that he risked losing the only woman he’s ever loved for the sake of a solemn vow he made to a friend nine years ago.”
“A v…vow?” Juliet’s hands twined at her waist, as she wondered what was to come.
“Yes, he swore he’d never speak a word of what passed between us when I ran away from Granville. But back in June, he wrote to ask for permission to tell you the truth about what happened between us all those years ago. That’s the letter that arrived at my rooms tonight.”
She remembered him back at the inn in Salisbury, saying that she was wrong about his dealings with Lady Vanessa. Could she be about to discover the truth at last? And if she did, where did that leave her after three months without a word from him? “So will you give him permission?”
“I thought you’d get a truer picture of what happened if I spoke to you in person. He’s inclined to play down his heroism.”
Heroism? His Dis-Grace, Lucas Hebden?
Juliet was more baffled than ever. She gestured toward Lady Vanessa’s chair as she sat down. “Tell me everything.”
Chapter 25
Dover, Kent Coast, 10 days later
The storm outside lashed the port, but the Duke of Evesham was safe and snug in Dover’s best inn. Not that he was in a frame of mind to enjoy the luxury. This evening, as on so many other evenings, he stood at the window in his shirtsleeves, watching the world outside with a heavy heart.
On the table, most of an excellent dinner awaited clearing away. An open bottle of brandy, almost certainly smuggled in from France across the Channel, sat on the sideboard. So far, it remained untouched. Evesham had an inkling it would stay that way, although none of his wild friends would believe it.
During the last barren months, he’d sought refuge in alcohol from time to time, but it never helped. He’d finish the sleepless night drunk and miserable and face the next day still miserable but with a headache.
Over the crashing of thunder, he almost missed the soft knock on the door. The servants come to take away his uneaten meal, he supposed.
But when he gave permission to enter, it was the innkeeper himself who appeared. “Your Grace, a lady is below, asking to see you.”
By George, the bawds of Dover were getting pushy, if they fronted up at a man’s lodgings to tout for business. And desperate, if they were out in this weather. But then, he was a duke with a reputation for both lechery and generosity. They wouldn’t get many chances to procure such a client.
The libertine he’d once been would have greeted this news with pleasure. What better way to while away the hours before his ship sailed for France than with a good fuck? He was bored as well as unhappy, given that he’d been stuck in this godforsaken town for nearly a week while rough seas halted shipping.
But the man he was now had no interest in Dover’s frail sisterhood. Since his days at Afton Park, he had no interest in women at all. Apart from the one woman who wouldn’t have him under any circumstances.
These days, he was almost as bloody monkish as His Grace, the Duke of Granville.
“Send her away, man.”
The man looked long-suffering. “She was most insistent, sir.”
Evesham sighed and stared out the mullioned window at the lightning that split the sky. “She can insist all she likes. I’m not in the mood for a strumpet.”
Jenkins hesitated as if he wanted to protest. He must get a cut of the bawd’s fee. “I wouldn’t have troubled you except that her manner indicates she’s a lady.”
So not a street girl, then. A courtesan seeking custom, perhaps offering to become his mistress. His bad reputation was the gift that kept on giving. “Not even a high-class strumpet, Jenkins. Pour her a brandy on my account and tell her to ply her trade elsewhere.”
Evesham swung away from the window to give the man a sharper order if need be, but Jenkins bowed . “Very good, Your Grace.”
He didn’t watch as the man collected up the remains of the meal and left. The innkeeper didn’t query whether the food met Evesham’s standards. After a week of having the duke in residence, the staff here was used to carrying away plates that had been barely touched.
Evesham sighed again with a weight of despair that he hated but couldn’t shift. He was in a lather to leave England and all its gloomy memories. This delay in his plans grated. Perhaps with the English Channel between them, he could start to forget Juliet.
And fairies might fly him to Calais tonight, singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” He had a grim feeling that a broken heart knew no geography and he’d be as dismal in Paris as he was in London.
