Ana Maria stared at the broken shards of glass on the floor, unnerved by her own violence.
Although there was something exhilarating about acting on impulse. Though acting on impulse had gotten her to kiss him, which was both the best and the worst idea ever, so perhaps it was not only exhilarating but also incredibly foolish.
And she did not want Bertha to have to clean it up.
That was the problem with impulsive acts: one always had to clean them up after, whether it was broken glass or a spontaneous kiss.
She stepped carefully over the mess, going to the side of the room where the bellpull was. Before she could ring it, however, the door swung open and Nash’s butler—Richardson?—appeared, glancing between her and the floor, his expression remaining completely neutral.
“I will send someone to clean that up, my lady,” he said. “If you will follow me, I will take you to your carriage.”
“I don’t want anyone else to clean—” she began, but stopped as Richardson raised a dark eyebrow. She was skilled in the vernacular of upper servant, so his raised eyebrow was as close to dismissal as she could possibly get.
“Never mind,” she conceded, reaching into her pocket for a coin. “Please give this to Bertha. I presume she’ll be the one cleaning. It is entirely my fault.”
He nodded, tucking the coin into his waistcoat. “This way, my lady.”
Once ensconced in the carriage, Ana Maria leaned back against the seat cushions, blowing out an exasperated breath. Why did he have to be such a horrified lummox about it? It was just a kiss, after all.
She’d assumed he was like Sebastian, at least before Sebastian had met and married Ivy; cavalierly dashing about being charming to all sorts of ladies, all of whom knew he wasn’t serious about any of them.
But Nash was as far from a dashing cavalier as she was from being a hardened flirt, so it likely made sense.
More drat.
She had been angry with him, but now she was just . . . deflated. Her glorious act of independence had actually hurt someone. Him. The last person she wished to hurt.
He’d been hurt in his life so much. Not recently, of course; he seemed to be the one hurting others now, others who (in Nash’s view) deserved the hurting.
But back then, when he’d first started coming to the house, he’d been a thin, awkward boy with too dark eyes and a haunted expression. She’d only seen the late duke once, but he had appeared to be a cruel man, one who reveled in castigating servants and his son alike.
And from what Sebastian had let slip, the duke had actually and literally hurt Nash. That explained why he was so quick to hit people himself, although she had to wonder if that made him feel worse because that made him similar to his father, or if he was preventing himself from being treated like his father in the first place.
Just thinking about that sad, lonely boy made her heart hurt.
And she had kissed the adult version of that sad, lonely boy. Was he still sad? She couldn’t tell. He seemed relatively pleased with his life, although it was clear he didn’t precisely enjoy being an aristocrat, what with his dislike of social events and conventional neckwear.
Was he lonely?
He had Sebastian and Thaddeus as friends, but the former was busy with his new life as a nobody, while the latter was busy with his new life as a duke.
He had Finan, of course. And all of his servants who were also his half siblings. But did he confide in any of those people?
It had felt, that night on the terrace, as though he were confiding in her. She could be his friend. And not a friend whom he also kissed, since clearly that concerned him.
She’d have to ensure she kept her distance while also being close enough to him to invite confidences.
Walking that oxymoronic line, as usual, she thought to herself with a wry chuckle.
He’d stalked up to his bedroom, intent on finding a shirt, and startled one of his younger half sisters who was also a maid into a shriek, causing another one to laugh uncontrollably.
He wasn’t certain which reaction he preferred.
Finan was waiting for him, his expression far from the smug one Nash expected. Instead, his friend’s face looked pained. He handed a note to Nash, who opened it and immediately scowled.
I am waiting.
It wasn’t signed, but of course it could only be from his grandmother. Apparently he was already late. For what, he didn’t know. Except that it would be unpleasant. He groaned and got himself not only shirted, but jacketed and cravated as well.
“Damn proper lady,” he muttered as he ran his fingers through his hair. He took one last look at himself, grimacing as he saw the nearly proper gentleman looking back at him.
He went downstairs to the salon she’d been taking tea in, flinging the door open and stepping inside.
“Good afternoon.” His grandmother sounded pleased, and he had a trickle of trepidation slide down his spine. His hellcloth felt even tighter.
It became a flood of trepidation when he saw who was in the salon with his grandmother: no fewer than three young ladies. The blonde from the other evening, and two more, all perched on his sofa, three in a row, as if for his inspection.
“I have invited these ladies to take tea with us,” his grandmother said. Definitely for his inspection. She narrowed her gaze at him. “Please, Duke, do sit down.” It wasn’t a request.
He took the chair on the side of the tea table, which meant that his grandmother was on the other side, and the three young ladies were facing him.
All of them looking at him. Just . . . looking.
“This is Lady Felicity Townshend, I believe you two have met before.” Lady Felicity’s expression was smug. Preening because they had met already?
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace. I did so enjoy our dance together.” She accompanied her words with a shift of her shoulders, a little wriggle that looked rehearsed.
“And this is Miss Victoria Statham, she is the daughter of Mr. James Statham of the Derbyshire Stathams.” As though that meant anything to him.
Miss Victoria was a slight brunette with enormous green eyes, making her look a bit like a sprite. He couldn’t marry a sprite, for God’s sake.
“Lady Beatrice Colm. Lady Beatrice is the granddaughter of a lady I met while making my own debut.”
Lady Beatrice looked anxious, her brown eyes darting around the room like she was tracking a housefly’s progress. She barely made eye contact with him during the introduction, immediately glancing around, her hands twisting into fists in her lap. Her lips were a thin line, her throat visibly moving as she swallowed.
Was he that terrifying?
Or was she that nervous?
He took a deep breath. He owed it to Lady Beatrice, at least, to try to be gentle during this unexpected visit. “I am pleased you could all come to tea.”
His voice was a flat monotone. If he were listening to himself, he would assume that he was most definitely not pleased.
Which would be true, but it also would not be kind.
He needed to make certain he was kind.
He glanced again at Lady Beatrice, who appeared entranced by the drapes.
“I find tea to be a most refreshing beverage.”
His grandmother made some sort of inarticulate noise. Proof, then, that they were actually related?
“Can I pour?” she asked.
Lady Felicity bounced in her seat, keeping her gaze fixed on Nash’s face. “I would very much like that. I believe, Your Grace, you are also fond of whiskey?”
Was this proper teatime conversation? Was he now supposed to reveal his opinions on all the beverages ranging from milk—nasty, thick beverage that he loathed—to whiskey—his daily reward for not punching anyone who didn’t deserve it?
He shrugged. He could do that. Perhaps this polite Society thing wouldn’t be too difficult, after all.
“My mother says that any alcohol is the devil’s poison,” Miss Statham announced.
Nash frowned as he considered her words. “So does that mean it will poison the devil, and is therefore a good thing? Or that the devil makes the poison and people drink it?”
He directed his question at Miss Statham, but the responses he got were from everyone. His grandmother inhaled sharply, Miss Felicity’s eyes went wide, and Lady Beatrice uttered an unexpected giggle.
At least she wasn’t terrified or nervous any longer.
Miss Statham didn’t say a word, but she stood up suddenly, stains of color high on her cheeks. She marched out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
The wood sprite had spirit, it seemed.
“One down, two to go,” he heard his grandmother murmur.
“If you will pardon me,” Lady Beatrice said. “Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace. Your Grace.” She rose, giving the drapes one last look, and scurried out, relief in every line of her body.
Two down, one to go.
“I would love some tea, Your Grace,” Lady Felicity said. Her expression was that of a cat who had managed to snag all of the cream.
And he was the cream.
He did not want to be cream. Or to be snagged, for that matter.
This cat would be the most difficult to remove.
“As it happens, I have a meeting with my secretary to review some important things of importance.”
His grandmother glared. As she should; it was clear he was making up an excuse as he went along.
“I will see you soon, Your Grace,” Lady Felicity said in an overly sweet voice. Meow.
Nash had never been more grateful for paperwork in his life.
“We’ve found two more,” Robert Carstairs, his secretary, said as he held a piece of paper out to Nash, who was seated at his desk.
“My father was certainly busy. And quite fertile, apparently.” Nash reviewed the names and location of his recently found siblings. They were far north, likely conceived when the late duke went to visit his hunting box in Scotland.
“I’ve sent them the usual correspondence, asking if they need assistance or positions. One of them sent back a note asking for assurance that you are nothing like our father. The other one replied that she would be interested in a position and that she has worked as a governess.”
“I hope you told her we don’t have any children here.”
“I thought perhaps you might speak with the ladies at the Society for Poor and Unfortunate Children? You’ve given them quite a bit of money in the past few years.”
“Huh. I have?”
Robert nodded. “It was on the recommendation of Lady Ana Maria. I believe she takes an interest there as well.”
Of course she did. Wanting to help children who were born into bad situations, like she was.
“Can you write them, then?”
“I already have, and they say they can always use more hands, but that they cannot afford to pay her salary.”
Nash waved the paper. “So take care of that as well. And write that other one back and let her know I am nothing like my father.” At least he hoped so, even though he knew he was wrong.
“I have already done that also. And I’ve done something else,” he began, his expression oddly hesitant.
“What is it?”
Robert took a deep breath before speaking. “I’ve located your mother.”
Nash inhaled sharply before advancing on Robert, his hands curled into fists. “What?”
Robert didn’t move back, and the two men stood chest to chest, Nash’s gaze locked on his secretary’s.
Robert was one of the first of his father’s bastards Nash had discovered after their father had died. He’d been working as a clerk in a London shipping office, but had leaped at the chance to work for Nash, especially since it meant he could work on finding more of the duke’s offspring.
Thus far, Robert had found no fewer than a dozen—fourteen with these two new finds—and Nash had helped as many of them who wanted it, employing eight of them in his town house and sending regular funds to some of the others.
“I asked you to find our siblings,” Nash said. “Not my mother.” He felt the red mist of his anger rise in his vision. Push it down, don’t let it take over, never unleash it unless the person deserves it.
Robert did not deserve it.
He hated the inexorable feeling of violence—he was usually able to deter it with a fight fueled by justice, or some whiskey, but there were other times when the anger overwhelmed him, and he could not control himself.
Like his father. No matter what he did, no matter how many siblings he found, no matter how many wrongs he righted, he always returned to his father’s behavior.
You take after me. In every way.
No, he didn’t. He couldn’t.
He stared at Robert for another long moment, his half brother meeting his gaze squarely, no hint of fear in his eyes. Then Nash reached around Robert to snatch some sort of table decoration—a vase, a water pitcher, whatever it was—and raised it over his head, preparing to smash it against the wall.
Only to lower it slowly, the anger easing out of him as he recalled Robert’s expression—not as though Nash were about to punch him in the jaw, but as though he knew Nash’s turmoil, but also knew Nash wouldn’t hurt him.
What had she said? This was my choice, Nash. He could choose to be himself, not his father. Couldn’t he?
He placed the vase back down on the table, Robert watching his movements. For a moment, Nash allowed himself to think about what would have happened if he had smashed the vase, after all: the satisfying noise of the crash against the wall, the shards of glass falling to the carpet, the final and utter destruction of something that could never be brought back.
There was something intoxicating about that finality, about completing an action that could never be undone. But that way was a dangerous, inevitable path toward who he could not be, not without loathing himself and having everyone in his vicinity—not just people who believed his reputation—know he was as dangerous as they had heard.
What if she believed he was as dangerous as his reputation? Worse, what if she saw him engage in violence when it wasn’t justified? When her safety wasn’t at risk?
He didn’t think he could live with himself. Which just meant he had to keep his temper tethered. He had to choose to be different.
“There you are. We must speak. Now.”
His grandmother’s peremptory tone matched her commanding expression. She stood at the doorway to his office, her lady’s maid just behind her, both ladies radiating disapproval.
Of course.
He wished he could tell her that at least he hadn’t broken the vase, but then that would be admitting he shared more of his father’s tendencies than she likely knew.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Robert said, nodding as he walked toward the door, stepping aside to let the dowager duchess in.
“Thank you,” Nash called, hoping Robert would know he was thanking him for all of it—for standing strong against Nash’s violence, for finding Nash’s mother. For seeming to trust Nash when he didn’t trust himself.
His grandmother walked slowly into the room, her lady’s maid at her elbow.
“Please sit down,” he said, pulling a chair out for her.
He waited as she lowered herself into her chair, pointedly ignoring his outstretched hand. Her lady’s maid positioned herself in her usual place behind the dowager duchess.
“Those three were the top three on the list.” His grandmother sniffed as she straightened herself even more in her chair. “And now only Lady Felicity is a possible candidate.”
“Isn’t it saving time to know right away?” It seemed only practical to Nash; besides which, now he wouldn’t have to dance with two of the three.
“That is not the point. I know your mother left when you were young, but I would have thought your father”—never saying “my son,” which showed the depths of her antipathy toward him—“would have obtained proper training for you.”
Nash shook his head slowly, as though regretful. Which he most definitely was not. Being ignored by his father was a blessing. “The late duke was intent on only a few things, and obtaining proper training for me was not one of them.” Instead, he’d been free to roam around the country, tagging along with Sebastian and Thaddeus on their adventures. Occasionally Ana Maria would join, when she could escape unnoticed by Sebastian’s mother.
“I will have to instruct you on proper behavior,” the dowager duchess announced. Her lady’s maid nodded her agreement.
Nash gripped the arms of his chair, willing himself not to shout at both of them. “There is no need.”
“There certainly is a need. Unless you can think of someone else you can ask?” She raised an accusing finger at him. “And don’t think you can say you’re going to learn and then just not. I will be able to tell.”
Thoughts of asking Ana Maria for this instruction—in exchange for self-defense lessons—crossed his mind, but he couldn’t risk spending even more time with her. The self-defense lessons were of crucial importance, whereas his learning how to navigate polite Society without alienating everyone was most definitely not.
“Fine. You can do it,” he said shortly.
She looked surprised—at his capitulation? But she didn’t say anything, just nodded in satisfaction.
“We will begin tomorrow,” she said as she rose from the chair. He darted around his desk to help her, and this time, she accepted his assistance, not waiting for her lady’s maid. “Right now, I am going to have a nap. I will need to be well rested.” She gave him one last assessing look, then she and her lady’s maid walked out the door, leaving him to collapse in his chair, shaking his head in bewilderment.
This getting married and siring an heir was a lot harder than just asking someone to marry and then having sex.
If he had known it would be this difficult—but no, he would still do it. Anyone who depended on the duke’s estate was in jeopardy if he didn’t.
It was a burden, but it was his burden, and he needed to shoulder it.
She had kissed him. And he had kissed her back. They had kissed.
There was so much kissing.
And then—nothing.
Did she regret it? No, not the kiss itself, but she did regret that he felt so torn about it, even though during it he had certainly seemed to feel nothing but pleasure.
But then again, how would she know? Perhaps the pleasure he’d seemed to exhibit was just a tiny portion of what was possible, kiss-wise.
How would she ever know, though, if she never got the chance to kiss him again?
Because she did not want to kiss anybody else.
The carriage pulled up to the house as her mind was whirling, and Ana Maria leaned forward to glance out the window, noting with surprise that Miss Octavia appeared to be on the doorstep.
A welcome distraction, but also a prying friend who might see that Something had Happened. And that Thoughts were being Thought.
She quickly tried to smooth her expression so Octavia wouldn’t suspect anything.
“Good afternoon!” Ana Maria called as the footman assisted her friend out of the carriage.
Octavia waved in response, walking up the stone steps to the front door.
“It is lovely and unexpected to see—” she began.
“What have you been up to?” Octavia interrupted, her eyes wide. “Don’t waste time being a polite hostess, we have to talk.”
Well. Perhaps she should make certain never to game in Octavia’s club, since it was clear her emotions were writ large on her face. Or perhaps Octavia just had a keen sense for when her friends were doing things that were not expected.
“I saw that same look on Ivy’s face when your brother came to live with us,” Octavia said in a whisper as Fletchfield opened the door for them.
“Tea in my salon, please,” Ana Maria said in a commanding tone. She hoped nobody had overheard Octavia’s words—she wouldn’t want her former fellow servants to ask her about it, much less tell Thaddeus about it.
She took Octavia’s arm, guiding the younger woman down the hall, shutting the door firmly behind them as they entered.
As always, Ana Maria couldn’t suppress a sigh of satisfaction at how gorgeous the room was. She couldn’t wait for her fabrics to arrive so she could begin redoing her bedroom. That reminded her—they should arrive today, she would have to check with Fletchfield if they had already come.
“Please have a seat, tea should be here soon.”
Miss Octavia sat, pulling her chair closer to Ana Maria’s. “I came over here to discuss the fabrics we bought, and if you could assist me some more, but that can wait. Where were you? Why is your face on fire?”
Ana Maria put her hand to her cheek. “Is it?” It didn’t feel warm.
“Your cheeks are flushed, plus you look—how do I put this?—more disheveled than usual.”
“Oh that! I was taking self-defense lessons from the Duke of Malvern.” She tried to keep her voice neutral.
But of course Octavia wouldn’t be put off.
“Aha! The Dangerous Duke! And he is teaching you self-defense? That is certainly intriguing.”
Ana Maria decided to concede. “And I kissed him.” It would be far easier to just tell her friend now rather than have her question her until Ana Maria was forced to reveal the truth.
Plus she didn’t like to lie. And with the exception of Jane, who was older and nearly settled with one of the grooms, she’d never had a female confidante before. It felt . . . fun to be able to discuss just what had happened with a lively friend.
Octavia’s wide eyes got even wider. “You did not!”
Ana Maria laughed at her friend’s astonishment. “I assure you, I did. And it was quite pleasant,” she said, “until it was not.”
Octavia placed both hands on Ana Maria’s hands, which were clasped in her lap. “You have to tell me everything. From the start.”
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Finan asked as Nash paced his bedroom.
Ana Maria, that kiss, Robert’s finding my mother, my grandmother, Lady Felicity. Not to mention the devil’s poison and fascinating drapes.
Nash shook his head, continuing to pace. He’d tossed his jacket and cravat off as soon as he’d come in the room, and now even his shirt felt constraining. Oh, and you might want to put a shirt on. It could get cold.
He growled.
“Nash.” Finan put his hand on Nash’s arm as he spoke. Nash shrugged it off, whirling on his friend.
Finan held his hands up in surrender. “You can hit me, if you want, but you’ll have to explain to your staff why there’s blood on this fancy carpet.”
Nash froze. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not myself today.”
“Seems to me you’re more yourself than you’ve been in a while.” Finan sat in the large chair at the side of the bed, the one that Nash supposed was for dukes who wanted to read before bed.
Not that he was one of those dukes. He only sat in that chair to put on his boots.
“What do you mean, ‘more myself’?” Nash said, his tone suspicious.
Finan made himself more comfortable, sprawling against the back of the chair and stretching his legs out. Nash resisted the urge to upend the chair and spill Finan onto the floor.
Mostly because the chair was heavy, and Finan was small, but packed with muscle.
Finan pointed a finger at Nash. “You seem as though you’re waking up from some sort of dream.”
“To a nightmare,” Nash shot back. Finan raised his eyebrows in question.
“I’ve got to get married, I’ve chased away all but one of the potential ladies, and I nearly smashed a vase because of something Robert said.”
Finan smirked. “Is that all? At least you didn’t smash the vase on Robert’s head. That’s progress, for you.”
Nash grunted in response.
“See, that’s why I say you’re different,” Finan continued. “You wouldn’t have thought twice about any of that before. You’re not just drinking and brawling anymore. Mebbe it’s because the dowager duchess is here to drag you into propriety, or because you’re spending time with that lady who is most definitely not your sister—”
“Speaking of which, you’re going to have to attend the training sessions.” Why hadn’t he thought it through before he spoke? “Because, uh, I might need to demonstrate, and I don’t want to hurt her.”
Which was a true statement in so many ways.
“Of course it’s because you need me for a demonstration.” Finan’s tone was skeptical. “Not because you’re so busy reminding yourself she’s nearly a sister.”
“Shut up.”
Finan raised an eyebrow, giving Nash a belligerent stare, but didn’t say anything.
Perhaps he should have just punched him. It would have taken less time, and fewer words. But he had chosen not to. That was progress—wasn’t it?
“And he said he doesn’t want it to happen again. Do you believe him?” Octavia’s tone indicated she was entirely doubtful.
“It doesn’t matter if I do or I don’t—he seemed so distraught after, I felt terrible. I wonder how rakes do it. Tamper with people’s feelings like that.”
“Most rakes aren’t sensitive young ladies kissing inarticulate large dukes,” Octavia replied drily.
“But even if I wanted to”—which I absolutely do, of course, and we both know that—“he would get all fussed up about it.”
“I think you’d enjoy seeing him all fussed up—” Octavia began, only to be interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Both ladies turned to look.
“My lady?”
Fletchfield appeared in the doorway, a gleeful-looking Jane right behind him.
“Your delivery is here,” Jane said in an excited voice. Fletchfield gave her a quelling look.
“And more flowers have arrived,” Fletchfield said. “There is no more room in the salon.” He sounded disapproving. Well, so was she—she did love flowers, but there was more to courtship than posies. Thus far, only Lord Brunley had actually made an offer, and his had been entirely wrong.
“Should I put them in—?” Fletchfield began.
“Wherever you want, it doesn’t matter.” Ana Maria waved her hand in dismissal as she spoke. “But my fabrics are here! Excellent!”
Not only would she be able to make plans for her purchases, she would also be able to get out of this difficult conversation. “Let’s go look,” Ana Maria said to Octavia.
“We’ll talk about all this later,” Octavia warned.
Ana Maria ignored her.
But she knew it would only be for so long.
And she would indeed like to see him all fussed up. But she would die before revealing that to anyone but herself.