Disbelief immobilized him, left him frozen, as he stared into the blazing eyes of one very furious Eliza James.
His own anger sparked. How dare she accuse him of neglecting his son? He always made sure the boy had everything he needed. He visited Frederick at least once a day, sometimes more, didn’t he? When he was here, at least.
He shouldn’t feel guilty. Rest and quiet were what the doctor said, what Nurse Pritchett said, were best for an ailing child, so he’d been careful not to stay too long and overtire the boy.
He did better than his own father, didn’t he? Samuel Claremont had never paid much attention to him, beyond drilling principles of proper behavior into his brain, not until Deveric had reached his majority and needed training in the running of the estates, anyway. And in truth, the estate manager took on the majority of that task. His father had preferred Town life, even off-Season.
Deveric hadn’t wanted attention from his parents when he was younger. Most of what he got came in the form of disapproval, whenever he’d made a wrong step, whenever he’d not comported himself as a duke’s son must. He’d quickly learned to stop wishing for their attention and to start being grateful when they left him on his own.
Eton had been an escape, as had Oxford. It was why he preferred his townhouse in London to Claremont House—fewer people underfoot, and less criticism from his mother.
“I always come back. Frederick knows that!” he bellowed. “I would have come back sooner, but I... I...” He faltered. He couldn’t admit, shouldn’t admit she was the reason he’d stayed away so long.
She stalked off ahead, clearly uninterested in his self-justification. He watched in disbelief, hands on his hips. She dared leave him, Claremont, a duke? Isn’t that exactly what you wanted? For her to stay away?
With a growl, he headed toward the kennel, his long strides ensuring he and Eliza reached it at the same time. Deveric stopped in surprise. His son was rolling around on the floor, giggling, a tiny puppy trying to jump on him and licking him everywhere it could. Mr. Sayers stood off to the side, watching the boy with a fond expression.
“Frederick!” Deveric bellowed. “Sayers! What is the meaning of this?” It was one thing for his son to visit the dogs against his wishes; it was quite another for the boy to roll in the dirt with the animals. What if he took ill again?
The hounds master’s back went rigidly straight at the harsh voice before he reached down to pull the puppy off of the boy. “My apologies, Your Grace. I know you don’t like Lord Harrington to play with the pups. I should not have allowed it.” Sayers ducked his head as the puppy squirmed in his arms, wanting to get back to the boy.
Frederick scowled at his father. “Why do you have to ruin it? Why do you have to ruin everything? You don’t even care! You don’t care about me! You wish I’d died when Mama did!” he shouted, tears streaming down his face. He turned and darted out the door.
Deveric made to go after him. Eliza caught at his arm. “Maybe you’d better give him some space.”
“How dare you—” Deveric thundered. Then, suddenly, he grew eerily quiet. No one said a thing as he stood, hand on a hip, his gaze never leaving the squeaking pups crawling around on their mother.
Closing his eyes, he exhaled, willing himself calm. He looked at Mr. Sayers, at Eliza, at the puppy.
“You are right,” he said. “You are right. I am grateful to you both for providing my son with some joy in his life, seeing as I have failed to do so.”
Without another word, he exited the hut.
Eliza and Mr. Sayers stared at each other in confusion.
“I’ve never seen His Grace do that,” Mr. Sayers said.
“Seen him do what?”
“Back down. Admit wrong.”
“Well, he should have. He is wrong.”
“But he’s a duke,” Mr. Sayers said as if that explained everything. “For you to challenge him...” He looked at Eliza in wonder. Shuffling over, he placed the puppy back in the pen with his mother. Pirate whined, clawing at the dirt.
“He’s a man, a human being. Same as you or me. And he needs to be a parent to his boy.” Eliza didn’t care she was imposing twenty-first-century values on a nineteenth-century situation. Frederick deserved better, and frankly, so did Deveric. Let not the sins of the father...
She walked over and picked up Pirate, who licked at her fingers. “I think I’ll take him to see Freddy. I’m sure the boy could use some comforting.”
“You’re playing with fire, my lady.” Sayers’ eyes held a mixture of respect and concern.
“Probably. But it just might be His Grace who ends up getting burned.”
Deveric fled to the stables, needing time—and speed—to clear his head, to get these overpowering emotions under control, to determine his next course of action. He rode Lighting hard for more than an hour, desperate for clarity, for answers. How had his world gone topsy-turvy so quickly? Because of a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed force of nature.
He still wasn’t sure what to do about Eliza. His mind urged him to stay away, to enforce distance, lest he hurt her. He couldn’t risk that. Wouldn’t risk that.
His heart, however, pulled him to her with its every beat. He needed someone like her, someone to speak plainly, to call him out in a way no one else dared. Someone who fired his blood like no one else ever had.
But first, he needed to make amends to his son. There was truth in what Frederick had said. Not that Dev wished he’d never been born. Certainly not that. But in avoiding and shutting off everything and everyone since the loss of his wife and daughter, he’d shut his son out, too.
And then when Frederick had been so sick, Deveric had nearly gone out of his mind with fear of losing him. He’d wanted to drop to the ground, scream his anger and grief at God, plead for his son’s life. He’d tried it before, bargaining to save his wife and daughter, but it hadn’t worked; God had taken them anyway.
Instead, he’d thrown himself into work, into riding, into punishing himself every way he could think of. He’d brought in the best doctors, commanded Nurse Pritchett to tend him around the clock, kept the boy’s room warmer than any in the house, but he hadn’t done what his son had needed him to do most—be there for him.
When Freddy was born, Dev had taken one look at that tiny, red, bawling face, and sworn he’d love him better than his parents had loved him, that Frederick would never want for anything, would never have to labor more than have fun. Societal expectations be damned.
And yet what had he done? Abandoned his son at his greatest time of need. I truly am a monster.
Sliding off the horse, he threw the reins at the stable master, not even staying to brush Lightning down, but racing toward the house. He needed to change—he was drenched in sweat from the intense ride—but then he was going to make it up to his son, whatever it took.
Eliza stayed with Freddy until he fell asleep. He’d sobbed in her arms for a good half hour, hiccupping and asking Eliza why his father didn’t love him. She assured him repeatedly that the duke did indeed love him, but when Freddy demanded, “So why hasn’t he come now?” she had no answer.
When he finally dozed off, she laid him back in the bed and covered him carefully with his blanket. She wanted to stroke his cheek, to wipe the remaining tears away, but was afraid to, lest she disturb him. Who knew that when I traveled through time for a duke, I’d end up loving his son, instead?
Because she did love Freddy, loved him dearly. She’d started to think of him almost as her own son, which was a mistake, if for no other reason than things weren’t working out with his father.
Could she stay here? Could she stay at Clarehaven if Deveric never returned her feelings? Could she spend days, months, years, watching him, living with him, loving his son, but never having him?
She bit her lip in frustration. This wasn’t the happy-ever-after she’d longed for. This was no fairytale ending, no midnight waltz at a ball. Instead, every time they took two steps forward, her Prince Not-So-Charming took twenty back.
Deveric didn’t want her. Yes, he desired her physically; of that she was certain. It was something. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted the deep, all-consuming love of which she’d always dreamt. And she didn’t want to constantly have to chip away at someone else’s iceberg to find it.
She carefully stood up, tiptoeing her way to the door so as not to wake Frederick. Walking down the hallway, Eliza was at a loss. She didn’t know what to do.
She longed to be sitting in The Grounds with Cat, nursing a cappuccino and talking about what kind of Easter activity to plan for the kids at the Treasure Trove. She wanted to be bowling with Shannon and Jill. She wanted to be where she fit in, where she didn’t constantly feel judged as lesser. Or worse, she didn’t want to feel lesser, which was certainly the case when she was in the dowager’s presence.
Maybe a book would help. They’d always been her escape in times of trouble, her friends when she hadn’t had any. Changing direction, she headed toward the study she’d found herself in that first evening. Under Deveric.
Once there, she thumbed her fingers across the titles, grateful the room was empty as she looked for something, anything that would distract her. She could read Dalton’s Atomic Theory, or Davy’s Elements of Chemical Philosophy. They were bound at least to put her to sleep.
Her eyes unwillingly bounced to the settee where she’d lain with Deveric, trapped in his arms, staring into his deep emerald eyes. She’d been so hopeful then.
A small book casually discarded on the far end of the settee caught her eye. She strolled over and picked it up, opening to the cover page. Sense and Sensibility. Ah. She’d thought the binding looked familiar—it was the copy Grace had been reading those few weeks ago. She sat down, leaned back on the settee’s arm, and started reading, the opening paragraph well known and welcoming.
The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.
The words were as comfortable as they were comforting. She didn’t know how many times she’d read this book, but it was the closest thing she had right now to a dear friend, and she let herself sink into it. She didn’t notice the sun setting until a maid came in to draw the window coverings.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my lady. I thought it were empty in here.” She was a pleasantly plump young girl, all cherry cheeks and big eyes.
Eliza yawned, setting the book down. “No need to apologize. I lost track of time. What time is it?”
“Six o’clock, my lady. Would you like for me to stoke up the fire again?”
“No, no. I’d better go. Thank you, —?”
“Dora, my lady.” The maid gave her a nervous curtsy.
“Oh, no need for that.” Eliza winked at her. “Please, call me Eliza.”
Dora smiled again. “The governess?”
“Yes.”
“Betsy says Lord Harrington’s been ever so much better since you’ve been here.”
“Thank you.” Freddy! She’d been in here for hours—she should have checked on him long ago. Poor kid, deserted by everyone on the same day. “Excuse me, Dora,” she said, grabbing her skirt in her hand, “but I have to go!”
Eliza ran out of the library and raced toward the hallway with the nursery. As she coasted around a corner, she ran smack dab into a tall, imposing figure. “Oomph.”
Both women staggered back. The hat the dowager was wearing slid off her head and landed with a thud on the floor. That thing must weigh twenty pounds, Eliza thought, as she gazed at the elaborate millinery creation, her head spinning.
A noise similar to a hiss emanated from the Dragon. “It is not seemly for a woman to ... to run!” she huffed as she straightened her skirt.
“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” Eliza said, wanting only to get past her. “I was going to see Lord Harrington.”
Down the hallway past Deveric’s mother, the door opened and Deveric emerged, followed by Freddy. Eliza’s eyes widened, a tremulous smile crossing her face, as Dev picked up his son and enfolded him in a deep hug, his back to Eliza and the dowager. Freddy’s lips curled up in a smile. Whatever had happened between him and his father had ended happily, and Eliza’s heart swelled with the hope that Dev and his son might have a closer relationship from this point forward, regardless of what happened with her.
The dowager turned, following Eliza’s gaze. Both women watched as Deveric walked down the hallway in the opposite direction, his son clasped firmly in his arms.
She whipped her head back to Eliza and snapped in a low voice, “Hear me now, Mrs. Eliza James. You will not have my son. You will never have my son. Oh, he may want to bed you—and given the way you look at him, I daresay he will succeed—but he will not marry you. He will never marry you.”
Eliza stared at her, momentarily cowed by the menace in the woman’s voice. Her face drooped and her shoulders slid toward the floor. No, an inner voice cried. Eleanor Roosevelt. Eleanor friggin’ Roosevelt, baby!
She pulled up her spine and thrust her shoulders back, her stance confident, her eyes calm as she returned the dowager’s direct gaze. “I don’t believe that is for you to say, Your Grace. Your son is a grown man and I daresay he can make his own decisions.”
Triumph entered the dowager’s eyes. “Aha! You admit you’re trying to ensnare him!” She fixed a shrewd look on Eliza.
“No. I’m not.”
“You just said—”
“I said he can choose whom he wishes to marry. And, yes, I have hoped he would choose me. But I never, not for one minute, have tried to ensnare him.”
The older woman frowned, as if what Eliza was saying simply didn’t compute.
“I want his heart,” Eliza confessed in a small voice, almost more to herself than to Deveric’s mother. “But only if he gives it freely.”
“Rubbish,” the Dragon said, hurling the word at Eliza. “You are a fortune-hunter seeking to gain one of the highest positions in the land. Don’t think I don’t know your kind.” Her eyes snaked into reptilian slits. It would not have surprised Eliza if the woman breathed fire next.
“I do not know why you hate me so much! If you think so poorly of me,” Eliza responded, her voice rising, “why don’t you throw me out?”
“Don’t think I haven’t wanted to. The only reason you’re still here is that family takes care of family, and Claremont insists you are a long-lost cousin. My son does not lie.”
Eliza wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Should she insist Deveric had lied? Because he had. She was no more related to him than she was to the Queen of England, and they both knew it. Surely that meant something; that he’d covered for her at the cost of his own honesty. Except he’d had to, because really, how else could he account for her sudden presence, an American widow at Clarehaven? Nobody would believe the truth, and any other explanation begged for a scandal.
Eliza’s shoulders rose and fell as she stared down the dowager. How was this to end?
“Mother. Mrs. James.”
At Deveric’s deep voice, Eliza literally jumped. When had he returned? How had she not noticed him approach? And where was Freddy?
“Claremont,” answered the dowager with a tight nod, her eyes never leaving Eliza.
Eliza said nothing, instead pulling and twisting the tendril near her ear with such force it hurt. The air was so thick with tension, she could have cut it with that clichéd knife.
Deveric’s brow knit as he looked back and forth between the two women. “Is there some—” he started to say, but apparently thought better of it. He took a deep breath. “May I escort you both to dinner?” he asked, extending an arm to each of them.
“Thank you,” Eliza responded, her voice tight, “but I wanted to check on Frederick. Is he in his room?”
It was all she could do to hold it together. She wanted to rail against his formality, his distance. His mother. She wanted to bring back the man who’d spent the night in her bed—platonically—discussing airplanes and taking raunchy photographs. Attempted raunchy photographs, that is. That man and that night seemed so far away now. Her dream was slipping through her fingers.
“No. He is down in the kitchen, stealing cherry tarts from the cook.”
Eliza nearly smiled at the image of Freddy with cherry smeared across his face, but the Dragon’s hawk-like stare stopped her. “Maybe it would be better if I took a tray in my room this evening,” she said, breaking eye contact with the dowager. Perhaps that was an admission of defeat, but she was tired of the battle. Tired of everything.
“Of course,” Dev answered. “I will have someone bring up dinner for you.” Concern flashed across his face, but he instantly reverted back to a blank expression as his mother linked her arm through his.
“Thank you,” Eliza said stiffly, her heart in her throat.
He gave her the barest of nods. And then mother and son walked off without another word, leaving Eliza in the hallway, alone.