Page 57 of The Duke of Lies
Until that moment.
Until he’d heard the longing in her voice and the fear of what his leaving would do to Beau. He couldn’t do it.
And what the hell did that mean? He’d spent all day asking himself that question, and the answer was always the same: no ship, no privateering, no more Christopher Powell. He’d agreed to be Rufus Beaumont, Duke of Blackburn, husband, father, estate owner, member of the House of Lords.
It was all he’d ever wanted, wasn’t it?
Once, it had been. As a thirteen-year-old boy, when his father had brought him here and showed him the life he could have had if not for the circumstances of his birth. It had felt like a taunt—come see what you can never have. He’d gone to sea and never looked back, certainly never imagining he’d be here and be the duke.
With a wife and a son.
He looked over at Beau and felt a surge of love so strong and so sure that he knew his life was forever changed. In just a few short weeks, he’d found something he didn’t even know he was looking for—home, family, love.
And not just for this darling boy, but for his mother. He was so unbelievably in love with her, and suspected he had been from almost that very first day. She was an astonishing woman—with grace, strength, and more courage than many of the men he’d met in his travels.
Yet hanging over this joy was the knowledge that someone out there knew he wasn’t the duke. That someone could easily bring this idyllic situation crashing down around them. He couldn’t let that happen. The only thing he could think to prevent it was to be formally recognized as the duke. Which meant doing what he’d hoped to avoid—going to London and taking his seat in the Lords. He couldn’t avoid it now, not if he meant to fully inhabit this role for the rest of his life.
First, however, he had to answer to his wife and make absolutely certain she wanted this too. Even if he meant for the world to believe his lies, she would need to know the truth. She already knew the most important part, and she deserved to hear the rest.
Kit leaned over and brushed a kiss against Beau’s head, then eased off the bed. He adjusted the coverlet, and Beau turned to his side, snuggling deeper into the bedclothes.
With a smile, Kit turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. He’d abandoned his coat and his cravat before joining Beau, and briefly considered fetching them before going to see Verity. Why? She’d tended his wounds, she’d kissed him, and now she’d invited him to her private study. Hang the rest of his clothes.
He walked to the end of the corridor, where the door to her room was barely ajar. He rapped softly and waited for a response. Hearing none after a moment, he pushed the door open. The bedchamber appeared to be empty. Rather, devoid of Verity or any other human. One of the cats slept at the end of the massive bed.
The bed dominated the room. Tall, with drapes tied at each post, it was made of ornately carved wood. He recognized the Beaumont crest at the foot. His father had proudly showed him the family emblem during Kit’s visit. He’d adopted part of it—the blue and yellow, which wasn’t part of the bed carving—into his personal flag on his ship. He’d omitted the lion rampant, which took up the center of the crest.
“I thought I heard you.”
He turned at the sound of Verity’s voice, pivoting to his right where she stood in the doorway to her study. She wore her floral-patterned dressing gown that hugged her upper torso but left her lower curves a mystery he longed to unravel. He walked toward her. “Forgive my attire. I was reading to Beau.”
“I know.” Of course she did. She’d left them together after kissing her son good night. “Did you finish the book?”
He shook his head. “He fell asleep after a page and a half.”
She laughed softly, and the gentle sound made the moment feel even more intimate. Because they shared this boy—a love for this boy. He’d never felt more like an usurper. He’d stolen into their lives and forged a place for himself, whether they wanted him or not. All of it was a lie.
And now was the moment of truth. “I went to confront Cuddy last night.”
She instantly tensed, her shoulders bunching and her hands coming together in front of her waist. “Please, sit.” She gestured toward the chaise in the corner by the windows, and she perched on a chair angled nearby. Concern streaked her face. “You got into a fight?”
“Cuddy attacked me after I accused him of embezzling.”
She winced. “Clearly you were able to defend yourself.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid Cuddy was intent upon murder. I had no choice but to defend myself.”
Her eyes widened as she understood. “Is he dead?”
Kit’s gut clenched. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”
She lifted her hand to her mouth and turned her head toward the black window. After a moment, she looked back to him. “What did you do? I mean, did you notify the constable?”
He took a deep breath. “I considered it. However, Cuddy indicated that he knew I’m not Rufus.”
Her face, after barely settling into a grim acceptance, registered shock once more. “How?”
“I don’t know. But he said he’s not the only one.” He pinned her with a frank stare. “I didn’t go to the constable because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Verity, it’s time I told you the truth. All of it.”
