The Duke Effect (The Rogue Files #7) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,11
and those serving under them. Living abroad and, of course, fighting abroad, these soldiers fell prey to uncommon injuries and ailments, and Papa’s reputation in the field of pain mitigation was far-reaching.
He shook his head and glanced to the window, looking much troubled. He swung those dark eyes back on her. “When did the doctor . . . er, pass away?”
“Ah, it’s been five years now.”
“Five years?” He frowned. “You are certain of that?”
She huffed an indignant breath. “I am quite certain of the date of my father’s passing.”
He blinked. “You are his daughter then?”
She pulled her shoulders back. “I am.”
He hesitated, looking her over, and she felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness at her very drab frock.
“Well, daughter or no, you must be mistaken.”
She gave a snort and propped her hands on her hips. “Oh, must I be?”
“Indeed, you must be. You are mistaken.” He reached inside his waistcoat and fumbled a bit before brandishing an envelope. “As I have been writing to the good doctor for the last several years. I have here his last letter to me . . . postmarked this very year.”
She gaped at the envelope, narrowing her gaze on the neatly penned scrawl on the outside.
The letter was very familiar. Because it was her letter. She had penned it and she had sent it to him.
Squinting, she made out the name of the recipient. Instantly, her gaze shot back to his face.
No. It could not be. He could not be here. He could not be him.
He was much too . . . young. He was supposed to be a much older man. Not this young. Not this virile . . . not this this standing before her.
Clearly, she had grossly miscalculated. She had thought avoiding anyone who lived in proximity to Brambledon would keep her safe from discovery. She had not counted on anyone traveling a great distance, let alone across an ocean, to see her father.
Because that meant only one thing.
This man was here in the flesh to catch her in her deceit.
Chapter 5
Dr. Langley was dead.
The knowledge rolled through him, obliterating everything in its path, taking with it the last of his hope. It was a blow. A crushing disappointment.
What now?
Upon his return to England, he’d dutifully claimed his new role as heir to the Duke of Birchwood. He’d moved into the London Mayfair residence with the duke and duchess and for the last two months he’d begun learning his new position and what was expected of him.
The duke and duchess were welcoming if not precisely warm. But then they had never been warm people. They were august members of the noblesse. Warmth was not a quality to be found among their ilk. Your ilk now.
They’d aged since he’d last seen them. Naturally. But it was not merely the accumulation of years. They wore their grief like a heavy mantle. They’d lost three sons. The toll was profound. Constantine had vowed to do everything he could to ease their grief and lighten their burdens.
The venerable duke wanted to groom him and apprise him of his myriad duties? Very well. Con would allow him that. He would not be known as the Duke of Birchwood who failed and sank the dukedom to ruin. He’d become a sponge and soak up everything the old duke could teach him and honor all those who had come before him.
The duke and duchess wanted him to pay court to his late cousin’s betrothed? Very well. He’d pay court to the fine Lady Elise. He’d even propose once a respectable amount of time had passed, assuming the lady was receptive to such an offer from him and didn’t view him as second best and inferior to her first choice duke.
He’d never imagined himself married. Hellfire. He had thought to make a lifelong career out of the army—and no. He had never planned to be one of those officers who married and took their wives with them on their posts.
The duchess’s chronic pain? He’d determined to tackle that, too. Somehow he would find a way to alleviate her considerable discomfort. The poor woman had suffered enough. If anything happened to her, it would finish the duke. The couple appeared sincerely devoted to each other—a definite anomaly among the aristocracy.
They’d lost their sons, and Constantine was duty bound to care for them now as the heir.
The heir.
It still left his stomach in knots. He’d never wanted the title. Never even thought it possible to possess it—never once had it passed