Page 112 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

It would be as unwise to mention estates as to reference an earldom, though Jack had decided to take a look at this Ferrington Hall he was supposed to inhabit. “North until I decide to turn in some other direction,” he replied jauntily.

One man laughed.

“The road is free to all,” said the woman.

“It is that. But companionship is a gift beyond price.”

She laughed. “You have a quick tongue. If you wish to walk with us a while, we will not turn you away.”

“Maa’ths,” said Jack, thanking her with another of his small store of Shelta words. He was surprisingly glad of the permission.

The caravans started up again. Jack walked along beside them. But with this matter settled, his thoughts began drifting back to the scene that had driven him from town. Much as he’d like to forget it, he could not.

Until the high-nosed Englishman had shown up in Boston with his astonishing summons, Jack had only half believed his father’s stories of a noble lineage. His Irish mother claimed that Papa bragged about being an earl’s son before they wed, but once they were, he wouldn’t take the least advantage of it. He refused to lift a finger to introduce Jack, his only child, to his rich relatives before he drank himself to death. And so she’d decided it was all a lie. Jack wished she’d lived to see the arrival of that “man of business” who’d lured him back here. He’d come partly because of her. How she would have reveled in the idea of her son as an earl.

His mother wouldnothave stood for one single insult from his scold of a great grandmother, however. She’d have scratched the harpy’s eyes out.

Jack had been taken before this Lady Wilton as if he was a package to be dropped in her lap. And she’d received him like a delivery of bad meat. Facing her distaste, he’d actually felt as if he smelled. The small, gnarled woman with snow-white hair and a nose seemingly designed for looking down on people had proceeded to deplore his appearance, his lowborn mother, his upbringing, his accent, and the sins of his scapegrace father, whom she’d never expected to hear of again after she packed him off into exile. But there was no help for it, she’d declared at the end of this tirade. Jack was now the earl. She would have to force him onto Society. It might just be possible if he followed her lead in every respect and kept his mouth shut.

Of course Jack had rebelled. No red-blooded man would stomach such words, particularly about his mother. The mixture of motives that had brought him across the sea evaporated in an instant. He had no interest in joining any society that included people like Lady Wilton.

Bruised and resentful, Jack had nearly boarded a ship and returned to Boston right after that meeting. But he hadn’t quite. He’d set off north instead. Only when he’d been walking for a full day did his anger cool enough to acknowledge that he was hurt as well as outraged. The truth was, he’d been drawn here by an idea of family, a homely thing he’d never had. He’d read stories about domestic tranquility and seen glimpses of it among his friends, but his childhood had been fragmented and contentious. His parents couldn’t seem to agree on anything except their tempestuous reconciliations after a shouted dispute. Jack had been audience or afterthought, often left to fend for himself.

When the summons to England came, he’d actually imagined a welcome by a circle of kin, a place where he belonged. He’d found disdain instead, rejection without any chance to show his worth. It was painful to be the unwanted earl, the bane of his father’s kin. The inner bruise had been expanding rather than fading as time and distance separated him from London.

“Are you a dreamer?” said a voice near his knee.

“What?” Jack looked down to find a girl of perhaps six or seven trudging along beside him. Tiny, dark haired, and bright-eyed, she peered up at him.

“You didn’t hear what I said three times. That’s a dreamer.”

“I beg your pardon. I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“My great grandmother.”

“Do you miss her?” asked the little girl.

“No, she thinks I’m a disgrace.”

“What did you do?”

That was the point. He’d done nothing but be born into Lady Wilton’s precious bloodline. Half into it. His mother’s lineage was not to be mentioned. Jack hadn’taskedto come here or be an earl. “Not a thing.”

The little girl took this in solemnly. She seemed to decide to believe him. “You’re too old to be scolded.”

“A man might think so.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“I’m nearly eight. My name’s Samia.”

Jack stopped walking, doffed his hat, and gave her the sort of elegant bow he’d learned from his wayward father. He had absorbed a good deal from the man, whatever his great grandmother might think. “Jack…” He hesitated. His last name might be better concealed. Lady Wilton was no doubt furious at his disobedience and perfectly capable of organizing pursuit. “At your service, Miss Samia,” he added. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She giggled, then looked around to see if any of her friends had noticed his bow. They had. Samia preened as they walked on, and she assumed a proprietary air as other children joined them and Jack told them tales of another continent.

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