Henry Sidney Stanford, the seventh Duke of Lovingdon, knew his porridge was growing cold—and he detested cold porridge because it became all slimy going down his throat—but he was afraid if he tried to eat he might choke and die.
Of late, he was very much concerned with dying.
He didn’t really understand it. He knew only that his father had died so they’d put him in a nice box, like his nanny did the toys he no longer played with. And he hadn’t seen his father since. But his nanny had warned him that if he ate too quickly, he could choke and die.
He wasn’t going to eat quickly, but he was very nervous and it felt like he had swallowed the ball his father would sometimes toss to him. It was because of the man. The man who had been in the coach. The man who had come for his mother last night. He was in the nursery now, walking around, looking at things. Every once in a while he would peer over at Henry, and when he did, the ball lodged in Henry’s throat would grow larger.
“How long have you been his nanny?” the man asked.
“Since shortly after he was born, milord, I mean…sir,” Henry’s nanny answered, with a quick curtsy.
Henry’s mother called her Helen; Henry was supposed to call her Miss Tuppin. But he always stammered when he tried to say her name, and she would rap his knuckles with a little stick she carried in her skirt pocket, so he never called her by name unless he absolutely had to.
She only whacked him when no one was around. He knew it was because she cared about him, and the fact that he wasn’t a good boy was their secret. She didn’t want to smack him, but he left her no choice. He didn’t understand that, either. He knew only that he didn’t want his mother to know he did things that earned him a smack. She thought he was a good boy, and even though it was a lie, he wanted her to keep thinking it so she would love him.
“So this is the day nursery?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And where he was sleeping last night?”
“The night nursery, sir.”
“When does Lord Henry move to a proper bedroom?”
“He’s not Lord Henry, sir. Never was actually. He was Lord Ashleigh. Of course, now he’s the duke. His Grace.”
“Quite right. And when does His Grace move to a proper bedroom?”
“When he’s eight.”
“There are rules even for childhood, I see.”
“Yes, sir.” Miss Tuppin looked over at Henry. “We don’t always like them, but we must follow them.”
“Do you like rules, Henry?” the man asked.
Henry dropped his gaze to his nanny’s skirt pocket, the one where she kept the stick that he was to tell no one about, and shook his head.
The man laughed. “Good lad. I think we’ll get along.”
The man was tall, like Henry’s father had been. They were all supposed to wear black now that Henry’s father had died, but the man was wearing a dark purple waistcoat. Henry wondered if he should tell the man about that rule.
The man pulled out a chair, turned it around, and straddled the seat, folding his arms over the backrest. Henry had never seen anyone sit like that. He was certain it was the wrong way to sit, but Miss Tuppin didn’t whack the man. Maybe she was afraid of him.
“Do you know who I am, Henry?”
Henry nodded, then shook his head. He sort of knew. The man upset his mother, but he’d also lifted Henry’s mother into his arms with a great deal of care. And he’d looked at her as though he liked her as much as Henry did.
“My name is Jack Dodger. You may call me Jack.”
“Sir, I don’t mean to interfere, but that’s not proper and he’ll develop bad habits,” Miss Tuppin said. “He should call you ‘Mr. Dodger.’ And if I might be so bold, you should call him ‘Your Grace.’”
“You’ll find, sweets, I’m not one for rules and have quite a few bad habits of my own.” He looked at Henry the entire time he spoke. “You and I have that in common. I don’t like rules either. Your father asked me to serve as your guardian. Do you know what a guardian is?”
Henry shook his head.
“It’s the person who protects you. If anyone ever hurts you, all you have to do is tell me and I will see to it that the person never harms you again.”
Henry shifted his gaze to Miss Tuppin. Her mouth was set in the hard line it always was when she whacked him. He looked back at Jack.
“I’m sorry your father died,” Jack said.
“Is your f-father dead?”
“Probably. The truth is, Henry, I never knew my father. So, you see, we have something else in common. Neither of us has a father.”
“Will he c-come back?”
Jack arched a brow. “Who? Your father?”
Henry nodded.
Jack suddenly looked sad. “No, lad, he won’t. But he’s asked me to take care of you, so if there’s anything you need—” He started to rise.
“A puppy!” Henry blurted.
The man stopped. “You need a puppy?”
Henry nodded quickly.
Jack winked at him. “We’ll see about that.”
He walked out of the room. Henry looked at Miss Tuppin. Her gaze was on the door, and she was chewing her bottom lip like she was thinking about something very hard.
“Eat your porridge, Henry.”
Even though the porridge was slimy, he did as he was told, because her hand had slipped into her pocket.
Olivia stretched beneath the covers. She still had a headache, her throat had become raw, and her eyes felt gritty. The laudanum had helped her sleep, but it had failed to relieve her of the symptoms of mourning. She wondered how long they would linger.
Then the lethargy wore off and she remembered the horror of discovering the terms of her husband’s will. She sat up abruptly and held her aching head. Her hair tumbled around her. When had she loosened it? Had she gone to bed without braiding it? Then her gaze fell on her hairpins, lined up neatly on the bedside table.
Only, it wasn’t her bedside table. God help her, it wasn’t her bed.
With mounting horror, she glanced around the room. Her husband’s bedchamber.
Before last night, she’d only ever come in here once, a silly attempt to seduce her husband when he’d failed to come to her bed for more than a year after Henry had been born. She’d thought perhaps he wasn’t aware she was fully recovered from birthing and could return to her wifely duties. Instead, she’d discovered he’d not wanted her any longer. He had his heir. He’d looked at her with pity. She feared she’d looked at him with desperation. She wasn’t even certain why she’d gathered her courage to go to him. It wasn’t as though he’d been affectionate in bed. Perhaps because a brief touch was better than no touch at all. He’d not been a passionate man.
He’d been nothing like Jack Dodger.
That thought caused her heart to thunder. The manner in which he’d looked at her—as though he knew all her secret desires and was capable of satisfying them. The heat in his eyes made her shiver, not from cold, but from the longing to have a man gaze at her as though she were desirable. She’d always been the good daughter, the good wife, the good mother, the good woman. Duty above all else. But suddenly, too much was being asked of her. What was Lovingdon’s purpose in bringing Jack Dodger into her life?
And how had she come to be in this bed?
Dear God, perhaps it wasn’t her husband who had gone mad, but her. She didn’t remember coming here. She was still fully clothed, save for her shoes. She remembered taking a small amount of laudanum to help relieve her headache, then reading to Henry. Afterward she was supposed to meet with Mr. Dodger—to convince him that letting them travel to the country was in the best interest of all. She’d simply wanted to take a moment to gather her strength before facing him. She’d closed her eyes…
And now she was here.
Had Jack Dodger sought her out? Had he brought her to his bed? Had he had his way with her? She didn’t feel as though she’d been touched. She felt no tenderness between her legs. Surely after nearly six years of not lying with a man, she would be aware if one had bedded her. There would be some indication. As there was none, she could only deduce that, if Mr. Dodger had brought her to this bed, nothing untoward had occurred. He’d kept his word. Imagine that.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. What sort of wantonness was taking possession of her?
Drawing up her legs, she rested her forehead against her knees. She didn’t want to face the day. She wanted to run away. To the country. To a field of green grass and yellow flowers. She wanted to take off her shoes and dance barefoot. She wanted to laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed. She was all of five and twenty, but of late she felt as though she was nearer to a hundred.
She wanted to crawl back under the covers, go to sleep, and wake up to discover that the reading of the will had been a dream. But duty called.
And Henry. Dear Lord, what if Mr. Dodger had decided to take his responsibilities seriously and seek out Henry? She had to check on her child. She scrambled out of bed and scurried to the door. Opening it, she peered out. No sign of the dreadful Mr. Dodger.
She slipped into the hallway and hurried to the nursery. To her immense relief, Henry was sitting at the short table eating his morning porridge. “Is everything all right, darling?” she asked.
He nodded. “The m-man said I c-could have a p-puppy.”
“The man? What man? A puppy?”
“Mr. Dodger, Your Grace,” Helen said. “He spent a few moments with the young duke this morning.”
Olivia’s heart fairly stopped. “Did you leave them alone?”
“No, Your Grace. As a matter of fact, Mr. Dodger insisted I stay in attendance so I could report firsthand anything you wished to know about his visit.”
“Oh. Well.” Her heart returned to its rhythmic beating. “That was rather considerate and unexpected of him.”
“He’s very different from what I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t think there’s anyone who hasn’t heard of Jack Dodger. He’s rather notorious in some parts of London. But he seemed right nice this morning.”
“Did he use profanity?”
“No, he just asked if the young duke needed anything.” She smiled. “And of course, he said, ‘a puppy,’ because he’s been on about that for months now. Mr. Dodger said he would see about it.”
Cursing the man’s ambiguity, she walked into the room and knelt beside her son. “Darling, that doesn’t mean he’s going to get you a puppy.”
“B-but he said.”
“His words meant that he might, but he probably won’t, because they’re such a lot of bother.”
“I-I’d take g-good care of it.”
“I know you would.” She sighed. “I’ll talk to him about it.”
Henry gave her a sweet smile. She hugged him tightly. He was so precious. How he would change under Mr. Dodger’s tutelage. “Now I need to get ready for the day.”
She went to her room and tugged on the bellpull to summon Maggie. Her maid had already put away the things she’d packed for their hasty departure last night. Olivia spotted the leather ledger on her secretary. She had tucked it into her satchel because she’d wanted to study it when they reached the country estate. She walked to her desk and turned back the leather cover. Everything was so meticulously written out, with detailed descriptions—
Her breath caught. She reread the words written on the first page. She released a furious screech just as Maggie walked into the room.
“Your Grace—”
“Where’s Mr. Dodger?” she asked succinctly.
“He’s in the breakfast dining room.”
“Help me to get ready quickly. I have a few choice words for him.”
“The coach is my son’s!”
Jack looked up from the page he’d been reading in his ledger while enjoying a leisurely breakfast. The duchess had arrived and she was furious. And in her fury she was breathtakingly beautiful. How had he failed to miss that last night? Or was it simply that a good night’s rest had brought color to her cheeks and washed away her weariness? Mentally shaking himself free of her spell, he came to his feet. “Good morning, Olivia. Did you sleep well?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.”
“What? Cordiality? I’d have thought you’d appreciate it.”
“Innocence. Do not pretend to be innocent.” She marched toward him, tapping her ledger as she came. “You accused me of trying to steal from you, yet you knew good and well that the coach belonged to my son.”
“I fear I did not. It’s listed in my ledger.”
“Show me.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t believe I will.”
“It’s listed on page one of this ledger. If you don’t show me yours, I shall assume you purposely lied and I shall so inform Mr. Beckwith who will no doubt reconsider whether or not to honor the first will.”
Jack would take her to court before he’d have the first will set aside now. “Show me yours…and I’ll show you mine,” he challenged in a low voice.
She studied him for a moment as though she should read something else into his words, and for the life of him, he wasn’t certain if she should or not. He wasn’t accustomed to flirting with women in order to lure them into his bed. He paid for the women he wanted. Nothing else was required of him except parting with his coins. With the duchess, he had the uncomfortable feeling something more was going on between them and that it could lead him down a path he didn’t wish to take.
As though making up her mind, she slapped the ledger on the table, turned back the cover, and placed her finger on the page. “There.”
Slowly he lowered his gaze from her triumphant expression to the words written so neatly. “Black coach with ducal crest. Ah, I see.”
“What precisely do you see?”
“A mistake, obviously. The duke put the conveyance in both ledgers.”
“Knowing my husband as I did, I think that entirely unlikely. Lovingdon was meticulous and precise when it came to all aspects of his life.”
“Including bedding his wife?”
Even as she glared at him, a rosy blush spread over her cheeks. Was she embarrassed by the question posed or the accuracy of his deduction?
“You provoke me on purpose to distract me. Any decent man wouldn’t ask such a question of a woman.”
“As we’ve already determined, I find ‘decent’ boring.”
He heard her foot tapping the floor and had the feeling she’d like to slap him again. Truth be told, he wished she would. He deserved it. Whatever had possessed him to pose such an intimate question? What did it matter how Lovingdon had treated his wife in bed? If Jack didn’t know better, he’d think he was feeling a spark of envy.
Her foot ceased its tapping. “I have shown you mine, now show me yours.”
“My ledger?” he asked.
“Of course, you dolt. What else would we be discussing?”
“I don’t know, Olivia, but I can think of more interesting things to show each other than our ledgers.”
“You duped me last night, sir. I would know the reason for it.”
With a sigh, he turned back the pages in his book and pointed. “There. Honest mistake.”
She glanced down. “Black brougham? How do you confuse a brougham with a coach? The brougham is smaller, seats only two—”
“I didn’t realize. I thought they were the same thing.”
“I don’t believe you’re that misinformed, but be that as it may, now that I know the coach is Henry’s, I can use it at any time without fear of being arrested for thievery.”
“Actually, you can’t. As Henry’s guardian, I am also guardian of all his possessions.”
“But Mr. Beckwith gave me the ledger,” she pointed out.
“So you’ll know what your son can expect to receive when he turns twenty-one, not because care of those items has been entrusted to you.”
He didn’t relish the defeat that caused her to sag. In truth, he knew she’d be a far better guardian over her son than he would. She’d fight to the death to protect him, while Jack would only fight until he was bloodied. His finances, however, were another matter entirely. Jack doubted she was well equipped to handle those. “You can’t win. I hold all the power.”
It seemed his words renewed her determination to best him. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “You are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“Then obviously you’ve not met many, Olivia.”
“I did not give you leave to address me with such familiarity.”
“Did you not? You instructed me not to address you by your title, which leaves only your name.”
“Mr. Dodger—”
“If I’d had a father, he’d be Mr. Dodger. As I didn’t, there is no Mr. Dodger. You may call me Jack.”
Olivia couldn’t, she absolutely couldn’t pretend such familiarity with this man. And she didn’t believe for one second that he had truly believed a coach bearing the ducal crest was his property. He was extremely skilled at unsettling her. Snatching up her ledger, she spun on her heel and walked to the other end of the table, where she set down the book that was certain to drive her insane before Henry reached his majority. The notion of thumbing her nose at etiquette and marrying posthaste was becoming more appealing by the moment.
Needing to gather her wits about her before the next skirmish, she went to the sideboard and filled a plate with poached eggs, toast, and ham—even as she did so, disturbingly aware of Dodger’s gaze following her movements. Her stomach tightened into knots with the thought of spending her morning in his presence. Her headache returned with a vengeance, and it was all she could do to remain standing. She nodded at the footman standing near the sideboard before walking to the table, where a second footman pulled out the chair for her while the butler stood observing everything. Normally the servants’ presence didn’t bother her because she and her husband had seldom engaged in any discourse that didn’t concern the weather.
She feared the same would not be true of any subjects Mr. Dodger would introduce. Perhaps she would insist that all conversations focus on Henry and Henry alone.
Mr. Dodger took his seat with lithe movements that reminded her of a predator settling in to wait for the next opportunity to pounce on its prey. She was left with the impression that, while he’d turned his attention casually back to his ledger, nothing about him was as relaxed as it seemed. He was acutely aware of every aspect of his surroundings. It was common knowledge he’d survived a life on the streets. She imagined his survival had depended on acute senses. Lovingdon had always given the impression he was distracted while reading his newspaper. She had a feeling distractions were as foreign to Jack Dodger as the notion of adhering to society’s rules.
She took a sip of warm tea, gathering her resolve for the next confrontation. She didn’t particularly want it, but for the sake of her son, she had to make sure his guardian understood that children couldn’t be toyed with as adults were. “Mr. Dodger.”
“Please, Duchess. Jack.”
His mocking tone left the unmistakable impression he held no respect whatsoever for her title.
“If you insist on my using your first name, then I shall refrain from calling you anything at all. Perhaps you could offer me the same courtesy,” she suggested blandly.
“But I enjoy calling you something. Although I must confess you don’t strike me as an Olivia. Have you a pet name?” he asked.
“No. And speaking of pets, you promised my son a dog.”
He cocked his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Are you scolding me?”
“You didn’t discuss the matter with me.”
“I’m his guardian. I don’t have to discuss anything concerning your son with you.”
Oh, she bristled at his smugness. “Have you any concept at all regarding the amount of work required to see after a dog?”
“I’ve been to rat fights.”
Olivia thought she’d have been in danger of bringing up her breakfast if she’d eaten any of it. “Other than that topic being inappropriate for the breakfast table, what has it to do with dogs?”
“Dogs fight the rats. I’ve seen the care and attention the owners give their dogs. They treat them like royalty, so I have a good idea of what is involved in caring for the creatures.”
“And when it dies, how will my son deal with his broken heart?”
“I’ll get him another one.”
She released a deep sigh. “When you love something and lose it, it cannot be so easily replaced.”
She felt the weight of his gaze as he tapped the open page of that blasted ledger. “Is that how you feel about your husband?”
“I will not discuss my feelings with a man who will use them against me.” She held up her hands in order to cease this turn in the discussion. She would never reveal to him her feelings about anything. “You promised my son a dog. But you don’t know him. He’s an extremely sensitive child. I must insist in the future that you discuss with me any decisions you intend to make regarding Henry, before you discuss them with him.”
He studied her, and she was left with the uncomfortable sensation that he could easily discern her feelings without her having to voice them, that he was as skilled at plucking out a person’s emotions as he was at picking their pockets. “I hadn’t realized it would upset you. I won’t get him a dog.”
He returned his attention to the ledger, as though the matter were settled simply because he had deemed it so.
Olivia didn’t know whether to feel relief that there would be no dog or anger because he could so easily dismiss a promise he’d made to her son. When she’d brought up the matter, she wasn’t certain what she’d wanted the outcome to be—his acknowledging he didn’t know the first thing about taking care of her son, she supposed. Unlike most mothers, she didn’t want to be a bystander in her son’s life. She and Lovingdon had actually argued over the hiring of a nanny. While she understood that all children of the aristocracy were cared for by nannies, she didn’t quite agree with the notion. She wanted a more active role, and this man was threatening to remove her completely from Henry’s life. “Last night you said you were a man of your word.”
Looking up, he gave her a cocky grin. “I am when it suits me.”
She wanted to scream at the word games he played. She was accustomed to dealing with gentlemen, not scoundrels who changed their tune when the music no longer suited them. “You can’t break your promise to him.”
“Make up your mind. Do you want him to have the dog or not?”
“I don’t want him to have the dog, but it would be far worse if you were to break your promise to him. Trust is a fragile thing, and you would teach him that a promise means nothing.”
“Usually it doesn’t.”
“Perhaps in your world, Mr. Dodger, but not in ours.”
“Jack.”
The man was missing the point entirely. Why was she even wasting her breath arguing with him? Like all men, he would do what he had determined he wanted to do. “May we move on?”
“By all means. To what precisely did you have in mind?”
“I was supposed to meet you in the library last night—”
“So you were. You promised.”
“I did not promise,” she snapped.
“You said you would. In my world, when a person says something, the promise is implied.”
Oh, her head was throbbing and she had a strong need to return to bed and bury herself beneath the covers. “You’ve made your point. I fell asleep. I apologize.”
“Do you always take laudanum before bed?”
“How did you know I did?”
“I smelled it on your breath.”
Cold dread raced through her veins with the implication of that statement. “This morning I awoke in, well, not in my bed and I don’t remember how I got there. Did you—” Squirming, she glanced around at the servants. While they didn’t appear to be paying attention, she knew none of them were deaf. She leaned forward with the hope of Dodger hearing her while she spoke in a low voice, but the table was so incredibly long. Why did they even need a table this long in this particular room? It wasn’t as though they often had guests.
“Did I…?” he prompted.
She glanced around again. “May we dismiss the servants?”
“I don’t believe there’s a need. As I understand it, they are forbidden by some sort of servant code to discuss our matters, even amongst themselves.”
“Yes, well—” She looked around again.
“When you failed to show as promised, I went searching for you.”
“I see. I assume you found me.”
He gave her a slow grin. “I did. You asked me not to go into your bedchamber. I saw no choice except to take you into mine.”
He said it as though he’d done something for which he should be admired. She had little doubt carrying women into his bedchamber was an everyday—every night—occurrence.
“Did you take liberties?” she snapped.
“Trust me, Duchess: if I had, you’d remember.”
The sudden intensity of his gaze was unnerving and gave her the distinct impression that he was envisioning himself in her bed, doing things with her body that would be far more memorable than anything she’d ever experienced with Lovingdon. It was unsettling enough to think of Jack Dodger holding her in his arms, against his chest, laying her on his bed, removing the hairpins—because now she had little doubt he was the culprit responsible for her loosened hair—but to contemplate his crawling between the sheets with her…
She dropped her gaze to the food on her plate to hide her shame that she longed to know what his deft fingers might accomplish.
“After depositing you on the bed, I went to my club. Ask Brittles. He had my coach, or what I thought was my coach, readied for me.”
She looked over at the butler. Even though he was not supposed to be eavesdropping on the conversation, he gave her a curt nod. She forced herself to meet Dodger’s gaze. “It really wasn’t necessary to take me to a bed.”
“The one you were in was quite cramped. I know many a woman who would have been grateful for my considerations.”
“I’ve no doubt you do,” she snapped. “I’m not one of them.” She rubbed her brow. “I apologize. I’m not normally quite so difficult.” She didn’t consider herself difficult at all, but she doubted he’d believe that statement. “The past few days have been incredibly trying, Mr.—”
“Jack.”
She swallowed. She didn’t want to accept the familiarity that he was offering, but she was so weary of battling him. “Jack.”
“There. Now, that wasn’t so difficult was it?” He came to his feet. “As the past few days have been so trying, I suggest you enjoy a leisurely breakfast, and when you’re done, come to the library and we’ll discuss this unusual situation that your deceased husband has placed us in.”
She watched in astonishment as he picked up his black book and walked out of the room. She could hardly fathom that a part of her actually regretted his leaving, but it was only because she was now alone, with nothing but her own thoughts for company.
And what strange thoughts they were. For a moment, when she’d walked in, it was almost as though she’d seen her late husband there, greeting her. It was a trick of the morning light, pouring in through the windows. She wasn’t accustomed to so much light in this room. Lovingdon had always preferred to keep the world out. From what she’d been able to discern, before he’d married her, he’d never allowed a single drapery to be parted or a shade to be lifted. It had been a somber house, reflecting its owner’s melancholy mood. He’d even asked her to restrict her desire for allowing in the sunshine to rooms he didn’t frequent.
She’d have thought Jack—no, she couldn’t think of him as Jack—would have preferred the shadows as well.