When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 15





Lovingdon stood at a window in the library gazing out on the thrashing rain. No outdoor activities today unless it involved building an ark.

“You wanted a word,” Greystone reminded him.

Yes, he did. When Lovingdon entered the breakfast room it was filled to the gills, and for the first time ever he seriously studied every man there. Which one was right for Grace? Which one would truly love her as she deserved to be loved? Which would treat her better than he would?

Then his gaze fell on Grace’s father and he’d known he needed to speak with the duke. He was allowing his daughter to run wild. Did he know she smoked a cheroot, drank rum, and slipped out of her room at all hours of the night? Did he know she cheated at cards? There were a thousand things about Grace that he wished to discuss with Greystone.

Now, he turned to face the man, who was casually leaning back in his chair. “I wish to ask for your blessing in marrying your daughter.”

He was as surprised by the words as Greystone appeared to be. He didn’t love Grace, refused to love her in the way a man loved a woman who encompassed the whole of his life, but he knew he could make her happy. And he’d compromised her, unforgivably.

He would convince her, one way or the other, that marriage to him was in her best interest. He would find a way to mend the heart he had broken.

Greystone tapped his finger on the arm of his chair. “I didn’t even realize you were courting her.”

“I suspect there are a good many things about your daughter of which you are unaware.”

“Not as many as you might think. What do you offer her?”

Lovingdon was taken aback by the question. “You know me, you know my family well. You know what I offer. Impeccable lineage, title, wealth, lands—her dowry is not a consideration.”

“What is?”

“I wasn’t expecting a bloody inquisition.”

Greystone stood. “So I gathered.”

“She’ll be happy. Of that I can promise you.”

“I like you, Lovingdon, always have, but I can’t give you my blessing on this matter.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”


The words were in his eyes, if not on his tongue. Because you don’t love her, you’ll never love her as you did Juliette.

The last thing Lovingdon had expected was a refusal. He could argue, he could insist, but he saw no point in it. “Then I bid you a good day.”

With as much dignity as he could muster, he strode from the room. It shouldn’t have mattered that his request had been denied. He preferred it, actually. He didn’t have to feel guilty washing his hands of the entire matter. He didn’t want a wife, especially one who might depart this earth before him. He couldn’t go through that again. He had merely asked out of obligation.

But Lovingdon knew it was a poor reason indeed, and respected Greystone more for knowing it.

He needed to return to London and he wanted to let Grace know before he left. This assisting her in finding love was a colossal failure. In the process it also managed to ruin their friendship.

Damn it all to hell anyway.

He’d been a guest here often enough in his youth that he was familiar with the family quarters, and he made his way to her bedchamber with no difficulty, but stood outside her door, trying to frame the words. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he already had, but neither could he pretend that all was right. She was the actress of their little group.

He considered simply walking in. After all, he had seen her in all her naked glory. There were no surprises left. But still there were privacy and boundaries. Just because she’d quivered in his arms didn’t mean she’d be quivering with anticipation if he walked in. As a matter of fact, he rather suspected she might throw something at him.

He rapped lightly. And waited.

He looked up the hallway and down it. He didn’t want to be caught here. If her father wasn’t going to give his blessing, Lovingdon didn’t want her reputation ruined. He rapped again. Pressed his ear to the door. No sound. She was sleeping.

He could come back later, but that would mean that he’d have to stay longer, possibly into the afternoon, and he preferred to be away as soon as possible. He released the latch, pushed open the door. It squeaked. He cringed.

Didn’t the servants know to keep the hinges oiled?

He stepped into the room. The bed was made. Grace was obviously awake. He should have checked in the breakfast dining room first. He considered waiting here, but who knew how long she would be? Some gent might snag her and proceed to bore her to pieces in the parlor.

Returning to the hallway, he nearly smacked into her lady’s maid. He straightened his spine and glared down at her as though it was perfectly fine for him to be exiting her mistress’s bedchamber. “I’m in search of Lady Grace. Have you any notion where I might find her?”

“No, Your Grace. She didn’t return to her rooms last night, so I assumed she was at her small cottage—although she doesn’t usually go when company is about. When I saw the door ajar, I thought she was finally home. I’m thinking that I should probably alert His Grace to her absence.”

“No need for that. I know where she is.”

She obviously stayed in her cottage to sulk, although she’d never been one to sulk. Perhaps she just needed some guaranteed time alone.

Lovingdon returned to his room for a coat and hat, then struck out in the rain to retrieve her. He didn’t know what he was going to say to her. As long as he’d known her, he never had any trouble at all speaking his mind, speaking to her. Even last night, when the sight of her scars, the knowledge of what she’d endured, should have left his tongue unable to move, he’d known what to say. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t thought through the words.

For the first time in two years he’d spoken without any thought, simply said what he’d needed to say, what he wanted her to hear. The stubborn, courageous, lovely girl she’d been had grown into a remarkable woman. She could have gone into seclusion, she could have hovered in corners. She could have stared out windows and wished upon stars for a different life. Instead she attended balls and soirees. She danced and laughed. She lived, God bless her. She lived.

While he was the one who had gone into seclusion. Not noticeably, of course. But he had withdrawn from life—until she brought him back into hers.

Juliette would have been disappointed in him, but no more so than he was in himself.

He strode past the gazebo, where everything had shifted and changed. If only he hadn’t followed her—

If only she’d asked him sooner.

The rain pelted him, and he barely noticed as he approached the cottage. He still wasn’t exactly certain what he would say to her. But he knew that when he laid eyes on her again, the right words would fall from his lips.

He arrived at the door, considered knocking, but in the end simply opened it and strode in.

Only to find it empty.

Unease skittered along his spine. If she wasn’t at the manor, if she wasn’t here, then where the deuce was she?

Rushing to the doorway, he glanced quickly around outside. Perhaps she just took a different path to the manor and they’d been as two ships passing in the night. That was probably it. She was no doubt there now, having a bath, or stretching out to sleep, or enjoying breakfast. Closing the door behind him, he started off—

Halted in his tracks.

Something caught his eye, in the mud, being battered by the rain. As he neared, he realized it was a bit of linen. The stuffing from her chemise? No, not nearly large enough.

Bending down, he picked it up and was assaulted by a sweet aroma that made him grow dizzy. Chloroform?

Bloody damned hell!

Grace was drifting out of slumber, languishing in a vague area where dreams were gossamer mists that hadn’t yet faded. Rain pounded a roof, leather cooled her cheek, and a rocking motion threatened to ruin her appetite for breakfast. Her head was heavy. Her entire body was heavy, just as it had been after her surgery. Her mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. She couldn’t swallow without discomfort.

“Would you like some water?”

Opening her eyes fully, she realized she was traveling in a coach. A man sat opposite her. “Vexley?” she croaked.

“Here.” He extended a silver flask toward her.

She pushed herself into a sitting position. Dizziness assailed her. She took a moment to let it pass, before glaring at him. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re off to be married.”

She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have the special license here.” He patted the left side of his chest. “We’ll be at my estate by nightfall. When we reach the village, we’ll make a quick stop by the church. The vicar owes me a favor. We’ll exchange our vows, then off to my manor for our wedding night. We’ll return to your father’s estate on the morrow with the good news that you are now the Countess of Vexley.”

She truly felt ill now, terribly, frightfully ill. Glancing out the coach window, all she could see was countryside and rain and dark clouds. “You can’t possibly think that I’m going to exchange vows, that I will sign the registry—”

“Doesn’t matter if you do or not. As I said, the vicar owes me a favor. He’ll make certain all looks in order, even if it’s not. With this little escapade and a night in my manor, you’ll be ruined and have no choice except to accept me, and all this fluttering about from gentleman to gentleman that you’ve been doing will come to an end.”


He was so damned smug, so haughty, so arrogant.

“I’m already ruined.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she wondered why she’d never noticed before how terribly beady they looked when fully open. “Who?”

She met his gaze head on. She would not be ashamed of what had happened between her and Lovingdon. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. Very recently, in fact. Should I become with child rather quickly, you’ll never know whether it’s yours or his.”

“Lovingdon. Why else was he with you in that cottage? But it’s of no consequence to me. I need your dowry. Rather desperately. Besides, the land that comes with you? A portion of it borders mine. I’m very keen to have it.”

“You’re mad if you think my father is going to hand over my dowry to a man who forced me into marriage and then forced himself upon my person.”

He smiled, a horrid little ugly showing of teeth. “He loves you too much to see you do without. I’m certain we’ll come to terms.”

Oh, she doubted it very much but could see there was little point in arguing. If this marriage did take place, she suspected she would be a widow before the week was out. Her father, Drake, possibly Lovingdon, would see to it. They were all too familiar with the darker side of things to allow this travesty to stand.

The carriage suddenly lurched to a stop, tossing them both around. She regained her balance first, flung open the door and tumbled out into an immense amount of muck. She scrambled to her feet, but the mud clung to her skirt, her legs, her arms, weighing her down. If she was free of it, she had no doubt she could have outrun Vexley and climbed a tree to safety, one from which he wouldn’t have been able to get her down. Instead, she slugged along, slow and clumsy, falling, shoving herself back up to stagger forward.

She felt a hand close firmly and possessively around her arm. Spun around, she found herself face-to-face with Vexley. Not only Vexley—

But a pistol.

She froze. The air backed up in her lungs.

“I’m most serious, Lady Grace. Don’t force me to hurt you.”

Then the realization dawned that if he shot her, he wouldn’t have his bride. “If you kill me, you won’t gain what you want.”

“I have no intention of killing you, but merely slowing you down. I have no qualms marrying a woman who will walk with a limp for the remainder of her life.” With his fingers biting into her arm, he dragged her back toward the coach, where the driver and footman were working diligently to rock the vehicle out of the mud.

As the rain soaked her, she fought not to feel despair. Surely someone would notice that she wasn’t about, but would they notice in time? And how in God’s name would they find her?

Haste. Haste was of the essence.

With urgency, Lovingdon galloped his horse alongside Drake’s. From time to time the mud slowed them down, but they were determined to catch up with Vexley.

Lovingdon had returned to the manor, explained to Greystone his suspicions that he thought Grace might have been taken. Then they’d done a very discreet but incredibly quick accounting of the men present. Vexley was nowhere to be found. His carriage and driver were gone.

So Lovingdon and Drake had set out. While they could have asked others to join them, they thought it best to keep those aware of the situation to a small group in order to limit the damage to Grace’s reputation. They were fortunate. Even with the rain, they discovered evidence of a carriage recently leaving. The direction of the ruts made sense. Vexley’s ancestral estate. How many hours ahead of them was Vexley? How long had Grace been his captive? What might he have done to her during that time?

The rain was a blessing and a curse. It would slow Vexley, but it also slowed them. Not as much, though, Lovingdon was certain. His horse was surefooted and could lope across grassy ground when the roads were mired, while the coachman would have no choice except to stay on the path and slug through. The rain had to stop sometime, and when it did, Lovindgon would be able to push forward faster. But would he get there in time?

He didn’t need much of an imagination to know what Vexley’s plans were: Grace’s ruination, a way to force her to become his countess. His countess when she deserved to be a duchess.

Lovingdon’s heart pounded with the force of the hooves hitting the ground. It raced faster than the horse, and yet there were moments when it was unsuitably calm. He would not let Vexley have her, not for the long haul. If the man forced himself on Grace, he would castrate him, then kill him. He would probably do both anyway, regardless of the man’s actions.

He just had to find him.

They rode, rode, rode. Through the rain and as night began to descend. They only stopped to rest their horses when absolutely necessary, and even then they trudged forward, horses in tow. He had to keep moving forward. Forward. Forward.

Dear God. Two years ago he’d stopped moving at all—

And then Grace with her schemes, her dodges, her cheating at cards, had started him moving again, reluctantly, slowly. He was squeaky and rusty, in need of oiling, and she had limbered him up, loosened him up. She had made him glad to get up in the morning, given him a reason to do so.

They were nearing Vexley Hall. In the distance he could make out some light, no doubt the village that resided within its shadow. On the other side of it—

A horse whinnied, screeched. Hearing Drake curse soundly, he glanced back to see that horse and rider had taken a tumble into the mud. He was torn. He needed to carry on, but he knew Grace would never forgive him if Drake was badly injured and he left him there to languish. He drew Beau up short and circled back.

The horse had regained its footing and was standing. Drake was kneeling beside it, examining a foreleg. He looked up as Lovingdon drew his own horse to a halt. “She’s gone lame. Carry on. I’ll catch up.”

Lovingdon hesitated.

“I can’t leave her,” Drake said. “I’ll walk her to the village, get a fresh horse there.”

“Are you certain you’re all right?”

“I will be once we have Grace back. Off with you.”

Lovingdon urged his horse around and sent it back into a hard gallop. He knew the frantic pace was dangerous with the dark and the rain and the mud. But he was so near. It never occurred to him that he wouldn’t find her. He just didn’t know if he would do so in time to spare her Vexley’s touch.

He reached the village but didn’t bother to stop to make inquiries. Instead, he loped down the center of the road. Few people were about. He could hear merry-making in a tavern he passed. God, he could use a drink. After he had Grace back, they would all have a drink.

He was almost to the other side of the village when he spied the carriage. It had no markings but was a damned fine carriage for a villager to be driving about. He’d bet his life it belonged to someone of noble birth. It wasn’t moving. No, it was quite still, positioned as it was in front of a path that led into a church.

“Weddings are supposed to take place in the morning, but not this early in the morning,” Grace said. She wasn’t quite sure of the hour but it had to be long past midnight. It had taken the driver and footman more than an hour to get the carriage out of the mud and on its way again. Then they’d gotten stuck three more times, before the driver slowed the horses’ pace. She had been cold, damp, and miserable with the mud caking to her clothes. Vexley hadn’t offered her his coat, only bits of cheese to eat and water to drink.


But he no longer recited poetry, as when they were on the picnic. He didn’t speak to her of his unclaimed heart. After today’s misadventures, she doubted he had one.

She supposed she should have been terrified, but she was more annoyed than anything else.

In long strides, his footsteps echoing off the rafters, Vexley paced in front of the altar. Only moments earlier he’d sent his driver to fetch the vicar.

“Vexley, rethink this mad scheme of yours,” she told him.

“It’s not a mad scheme. Do you know how many of my ancestors stole their brides? It’s tradition in my family.”

She thought perhaps he was striving to make light of his actions, but she saw no humor in it. Neither would her father. For a short while last night she had thought Lovingdon would stand as her champion, but he remained true to his word. He’d not love again.

He could recount every act of a man in love, but he had no heart to give. She envied Juliette to have been loved so much, to have the ability to hold onto Lovingdon’s heart, even beyond the grave. Theirs was the sort of love she longed for, not this macabre travesty perpetuated by Vexley.

She glanced around surreptitiously. She had to find a means of escape. She didn’t think asking for sanction would work, not if the vicar owed this man. The pistol was the problem, for even now Vexley had it in his coat pocket. He could retrieve it quickly and easily enough if she tried to run. He’d offered up a demonstration when they first arrived.

How could she have been so blind as to consider him a viable suitor? Who would have thought there was such a thing as a gentleman being too charming?

He wasn’t at all like Lovingdon, who was not overly charming. He argued with her, got put out with her. He didn’t seek to win her over with flowery words, but he’d managed to do it with honest ones. He was good and noble. As angry as she’d been at his reasons for marrying her, she couldn’t deny that she admired his willingness to go into an arrangement that would bring him nothing but misery, to make amends for the fact that he’d compromised her. If only she could be content with that: duty instead of love.

If she had not run him off, she might not be here now.

Although it was equally likely that Vexley might have done him harm. She had long ago ceased to look back and wonder what if . . .

She heard footsteps echoing in the vestry and her heart began to race. The vicar.

Vexley grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Do as you’re told and it’ll all go very quickly.”

“I do not know how to be any clearer, but I have no intention whatsoever of marrying you.”

“You will, that I don’t beat you. Make a fuss here and you will be black and blue for a week.”

She needed to catch him off guard. Lowering her gaze, she tried to look as docile as possible. “Yes, my lord.”

“Now where’s that blasted vicar?”

The footsteps increased in tempo, moving quickly, growing louder, nearer. Vexley glanced back over his shoulder. Grace shot her fist straight up, aiming for his chin—

But he flung her aside before she could make direct contact. She merely grazed him as she stumbled and landed hard on the floor. She heard an animalistic growl, and a huge beast was flying through the air. It slammed into Vexley and took him down.

Not a beast. Lovingdon.

She watched as the two men struggled and rolled. Fists flew. Grunts echoed. She rushed to the altar and lifted a gold candlestick. The heft of it would do nicely. Turning back around, she saw that Lovingdon had gained the upper hand. He was on top, straddling Vexley.

Thunder boomed.

The gun. Oh, dear God, the gun.

Both men went still. Her ears rang. Candlestick poised, she approached cautiously. “Lovingdon?”

He rose slowly and delivered two quick punches to Vexley’s nose. He struggled to stand. As he revealed his foe, she saw the blood on Vexley’s chest. It was a horrid sight, but she felt no sympathy. Relief swamped her, and the candlestick clattered at her feet. She rushed to Lovingdon and threw her arms around him. He grunted.

“You’re all right,” she sobbed, tears welling in her eyes. “You’re all right. I was so afraid—”

“I wouldn’t have . . . let him . . . hurt you.”

“I wasn’t afraid for me, you silly man. I thought he’d hurt you.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “You’re safe.”

“You saved me.”

“I’m not a dragon slayer, Little Rose. I’m only a man.”

She felt thick and warm liquid easing through her clothing. Vexley’s blood. But why was it still so warm? Why was there so much of it on Lovingdon?

Pulling back, she saw the red blossoming over his shirt. “Oh, my dear God.”

He gave her a sweet, sad smile as his fingers barely grazed her cheek. She could see the pain in his eyes. He dropped to all fours.

“Lovingdon!”

He slid the rest of the way to the floor. She fell to her knees, placed his head on her lap, and pressed a hand where the blood flowed. And then she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Help! Dear God, someone help!”