Page 53 of A Lady's Dangerous Secret
Gabe pointed his finger at a spot in the book. “The current Duke of Westcliffe’s full name is Theodore Frederick Adolphus Hughes.”
James’s full name was James Theodore Adolphus Hughes. His stomach lurched, but he shook his head. “There’s no chance I’m related to the Duke. My uncle repeatedly reminded me that I was the bastard of a no-good guttersnipe who seduced my innocent mother, and that I was just as bad. My mother, on the other hand, swears she was married to my father. All she ever mentioned was that he was an officer in the military. I’m sure she would’ve told me if he had any notable connections. As for my mother, she was the daughter of a local baronet near Birmingham.”
“I see. I suppose no one ever saw any similarities.”
“Because I’m a common bastard? Rightly so.”
Gabe glared at his friend. “Not necessarily. Iwasgoing to say it’s probably because Hughes is a common enough name that people wouldn’t make a connection.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s no relation,” James responded sharply. He was already too emotional for his liking from the stress of Lottie’s impending marriage, but now, Gabe was bringing up his childhood. James had buried that awful stage of his life long ago, and remembering it only made him feel worse.
But he paused again. Could he be entirely sure there was no relation?
His name was eerily similar to the Duke’s. He knew nothing of his father. He only knew he was a bastard. There was nothing from his childhood that would explain a connection to the Duke.
His mother’s story had been that his father was an officer in the British Army and was stationed in Birmingham. The two met at a local ball and fell madly in love. This officer—James could not think of him as his father—was able to procure a special license probably from some military connection. His mother married her beau soon after their meeting. Now came the part where his mother would get teary. Soon after they wed, the officer was called away due to a family crisis. His mother did not know where his family resided, but the officer swore he would return within a few days.
He never came back.
When James was older, his mother confessed what had transpired afterward. She found out she was pregnant, leading her to beg for charity from her brother, the vicar. The vicar’s wife had died in childbirth, leaving him with a one-year-old son, so he readily took in his sister to manage his home. James’s mother lived in the main house at first, but when she became swollen with child and could no longer hide her condition, his dastardly uncle moved her into the two-room old building on the vicarage property. Although his mother swore she was married and took Hughes as her surname, his uncle did not believe her. He insisted there was no record of her marriage to an Officer Hughes. The vicar could not have a such a sinful woman, kin ornot, living in his home. She was to be thankful he gave her a roof over her head. Even if that roof leaked in the rain and barely provided any warmth in the winter.
His mother gave birth to James, and to earn her meager keep, she acted as a servant in the vicar’s house, while James did the same as soon as he was old enough. His job was to wait hand and foot on his spiteful cousin, Herbert. His cousin did everything he could to make James’s life more miserable. One of Herbert’s favorite tricks was dumping his chamber pot onto the floor of different rooms of the house. If James got to the disaster in time, Herbert would sit and taunt James as he scrubbed his cousin’s feces off the floorboards. If James did not find the contents of the emptied chamber pot soon enough, his uncle would drag him out back by his ear to a hidden area of the vicarage property and whip him.
James learned the hard way to stay silent. He had cried after the first whipping, and the next time it happened, his uncle put a sack over his head and gagged him to muffle the sounds. Being in darkness and not knowing when the next lash would come almost broke him. After that, he kept quiet, even as the tears ran down his face, and his skin burned from the whip.
His mother never knew the truth. His uncle threatened to toss James and his mother on the street if he ever said a word. Instead, the vicar would make up stories and tell his mother that James was caught stealing or intentionally breaking items in the house. His mother would look at him with imploring eyes when his uncle made the accusations, but all he could do was lower his gaze and stare at the ground powerlessly.
His mother had been raised a gentleman’s daughter, so she taught him what she could in their squalid home. His uncle and Herbert would force him to sit next to his cousin while he was being tutored so James could sharpen his quill, fetch any needed materials, and keep the fire lit. They assumed James was toodaft to understand anything. What they did not realize was that he lapped up every morsel of education he could glean from Herbert’s lessons as he awaited his cousin’s next command.
James knew he had to educate himself in order to be free of his uncle and save his mother. At night, when the main house slept, James would sneak into his uncle’s library and read as much as he could before the dawn broke. At the earliest age possible, he enlisted in the Royal Navy and clawed his way up the ranks. When he saved enough money, he bought his mother a tiny cottage away from her brother, which allowed her to leave the vicarage and live as a “widow.” She still fervently believed James’s father, her husband, would have returned to her if he could. Once, she professed to James that she would feel it if the love of her life died, and so she knew with certainty he was alive. His poor, disillusioned mother.
James closed his eyes. That was his earlier life in a nutshell.
“James?” Gabe’s voice inquired.
James opened his eyes with a storm raging in their depths and met Gabe’s gaze. “As I said, there’s no chance I’m related to the Duke.” He turned on his heel and left the house.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Charlotte walked into the Rowley’s elegant home and stood next to her aunt, waiting to be announced. Her heart was still racing from the carriage ride. On top of this, she was in a constant state of agitation, wondering how soon she could wed.
The Duke was her only hope for protection from a death sentence. Arthur had stopped at their aunt’s home after she sent him the urgent message, and he agreed that Westcliffe was still Charlotte’s best course of action. If Arthur did not identify any other feasible options, then there were none.
Better to marry the devil you know or something like that.
But could Charlotte convince the Westcliffe to speed up their nuptials?
Eligible dukes did not grow on trees. The fact she had snared one at all was a miracle.
Charlotte’s and her aunt’s names were announced, and they entered the inevitable crush of yet another ball. Charlotte realized that very soon, she would no longer be Lady Charlotte Tipton, but instead, Her Grace, the Duchess of Westcliffe.
She paused. What would her surname be? Perhaps she really did not know the Duke, but there was no turning back now.
Charlotte scanned the room for Arthur, who promised he would make an exception for her and attend this ball as a sign of support. She needed him by her side to calm her nerves. With thoughts of her betrothal being announced imminently to more of a stranger than she would like to admit, her palms moistened, and she felt lightheaded. She needed a breath of fresh air before her aunt found the Duke. She turned to her aunt, who led them through the crowd.
“I’m not feeling well. I need to go to the balcony for a moment. The crush is stifling.”
“This is the most important day of your life,” Aunt Frances said.
