The Lost Duke of Wyndham Page 0,59

known the consequences when he said that they had. No one had told him he'd be crowned the bloody duke. All he'd known was that he was so damned furious with the dowager for kidnapping him and with Wyndham for staring at him like he was something to be swept under the rug.

And then Wyndham had said, in that smarmy, superior voice of his: If indeed your parents were married....

Jack had snapped out his reply before he had a chance to consider the consequences of his actions. These people were not better than he was. They had no right to cast aspersions on his parents.

It was too late now, though. Even if he tried to lie and recant his words, the dowager would not rest until she'd burned a trail through Ireland in search of the marriage documents.

She wanted him to inherit, that much was clear. It was difficult to imagine her caring for anyone, but she had apparently adored her middle son.

His father.

And even though the dowager had not shown any particular fondness for him - not that he had made much of an effort to impress - she clearly preferred him over her other grandson. Jack had no idea what had transpired between the dowager and the current duke, if anything. But there was little affection between the pair.

Jack stood and walked to the window, finally admitting defeat and giving up on the notion of sleep. The morning sun was already bright and high in the sky, and he was suddenly seized by a need to be out of doors, or rather, out of Belgrave. Strange, that one could feel so closed-in in such a massive dwelling.

But he did, and he wanted out.

Jack strode across the room and snatched up his coat. It was satisfyingly shabby atop the fine apparel of Wyndham's he'd donned that morning. He almost hoped he bumped into the dowager, just so she could see him all dusty and road-worn.

Almost. But not quite.

With quick, long strides he made his way down to the main hall, just about the only location he knew how to get to. His footsteps were annoyingly loud on the marble as he walked forth. Everything seemed to echo here. It was too big, too impersonal, too -

"Thomas?"

He stopped. It was a female voice. Not Grace. Young, though. Unsure of her surroundings.

"Is that - I'm so sorry." It was indeed a young woman, of medium height, blond, with rather fetching hazel eyes. She was standing near the doorway of the drawing room he had been dragged into the day before. Her cheeks were delightfully pink, with a smattering of freckles he was sure she detested. (All women did, he'd learned.) There was something exceptionally pleasant about her, he decided. If he weren't so obsessed with Grace, he would flirt with her.

"Sorry to disappoint," he murmured, offering her a roguish smile. This wasn't flirting. This was how he conversed with all ladies. The difference was in the intention.

"No," she said quickly, "of course not. It was my mistake. I was just sitting back there." She motioned behind her to a seating area. "You looked rather like the duke as you walked by."

This must be the fiancee, Jack realized. How interesting. It was difficult to imagine why Wyndham was dragging his heels on the marriage. He swept into a gracious bow. "Captain Jack Audley, at your service, ma'am." It had been some time since he'd introduced himself with his military rank, but somehow it seemed the thing to do.

She bobbed a polite curtsy. "Lady Amelia Willoughby."

"Wyndham's fiancee."

"You know him, then? Oh, well, of course you do. You are a guest here. Oh, you must be his fencing partner."

"He told you about me?" The day grew more interesting by the second.

"Not much," she admitted. She blinked, staring at a spot that was not his eyes. He realized that she was looking at his cheek, which was still discolored from his altercation with her fiance the day before.

"Ah, this," he murmured, affecting mild embarrassment. "It looks much worse than it actually is."

She wanted to ask about it. He could see it in her eyes. He wondered if she'd seen Wyndham's blackened eye. That would certainly set her curiosity on fire.

"Tell me, Lady Amelia," he said conversationally, "what color is it today?"

"Your cheek?" she asked with some surprise.

"Indeed. Bruises tend to look worse as they age, have you noticed? Yesterday it was quite purple, almost regally so, with a hint of blue in it. I