When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 16





Grace sat in a chair beside the bed where Lovingdon lay as still as death. They were into the second night since his encounter with Vexley. After collapsing onto the floor, he’d not awoken. From time to time he mumbled incoherently. She wiped his fevered brow, held his clammy hand. It all seemed so futile.

Thank God for Drake. He’d found them at the church, and with the aid of the vicar and Vexley’s driver, carried Lovingdon to an inn. He’d roused a constable to place Vexley in gaol until it was decided what to do with him, then secured a rested horse and fairly flew back to Mabry Manor to retrieve Dr. Graves.

Drake hadn’t wanted to risk Lovingdon in a bouncing carriage over rutted and mud-slogged roads. He hadn’t trusted the local physician, whom he’d thought in all likelihood was another of Vexley’s men. He stayed only long enough to see the bleeding stanched and then left Grace in charge. She had thrown her father’s name around to give weight to her words, and while many may not have heard of the Duke of Greystone, enough had that she was listened to. Or perhaps it was simply that she wouldn’t tolerate not being obeyed.

Lovingdon had lost a good deal of blood before Graves took the scalpel to him to do what he could to repair the damage done. But she could tell by the expression on the physician’s face that he didn’t hold out much hope for Lovingdon returning to them as strong and bold as he’d been before the bullet struck him down.

Her family and Lovingdon’s had taken over the inn. It was as quiet and somber as a church, and while people offered to relieve her, she wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t give up these last minutes to be with him.

She wanted to hear his voice, just once more, to see his smile. She wanted to gaze into his eyes and know that he recognized her. She wanted to thank him for showing her that she could be beautiful, even with imperfections.

However had he borne it when Juliette was dying? And precious Margaret?

She understood now—with resounding clarity she wished she didn’t possess—why he had broken. Her own heart felt as though it had turned to glass and at any moment would shatter beyond all recognition.

Somewhere a clock struck two. She was alone with this man whom she loved more than life. She wanted to beg, plead, cajole him into fighting—but his pain was so much more than physical. She understood that clearly now.


She pressed her lips to the back of his hand, a hand that had brought her pleasure and comfort and now brought her strength.

“What a silly chit I was. I thought love only mattered if I were loved in return, but I have learned that it is enough to love, and that one must love enough to care more for the other’s happiness. I want nothing more than for you to be joyful and unburdened. So let go, my darling, go to Juliette. I know she awaits. Let go.”

Let go. Juliette awaits.

Lovingdon was vaguely aware of the mantra urging him to let go, to release his hold on this aching body.

Yes, he needed to let go. He understood that now as he floated in oblivion. It was time, time to let go.

With a clarity born of deep memories, he envisioned Juliette as he’d loved her best, with her pale hair floating around her shoulders like gossamer moonbeams, of her blue eyes dancing with devilment. Her smile that welcomed and warmed.

And Margaret. Almost a mirrored reflection.

He loved them so damned much. But for the first time it didn’t hurt to think of them. A kaleidoscope of memories washed through him, and each one lightened the weight of their passing. Why had he held the recollections at bay? Why had he thought they had the power to rip him apart, when in truth they were strong enough to lace him back together? So many wonderful moments. He wanted to hold them close, but they slipped through his fingers. They weren’t solid. They were mist.

They didn’t hold his hand. They didn’t press warm lips to his knuckles. They didn’t splash salty tears upon his skin.

Slowly, so very slowly, he cracked open his eyes. The room was dimly lit, but enough light escaped the lamp to cast a halo around Grace. She looked awful . . . and beautiful. With her eyes closed, she held his hand against her cheek. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her dress looked to be that of a servant. His last conscious memory was of her standing in the church. He vaguely remembered voices circling about him—Drake, Graves, his mother.

And Grace. Always Grace speaking to him.

“It’s all right,” she whispered now. “You can let go.”

“I did.”

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him as though he had risen from the dead. Perhaps he had. Dear God, he’d certainly felt dead these past two years. Until this marvelous woman had knocked on his bedchamber door. Until she challenged him and irritated him. Until she’d shown him what it was to want, to desire, to dream of something grand that would last a lifetime. Until she’d revealed profound courage and strength that far exceeded anything he’d ever possessed. She thought she needed someone who truly loved her because she believed herself imperfect, when in truth she was perfection. He’d known her when she was a girl but never truly known her as a woman—not until recently. Now she haunted him and occupied his thoughts.

“I let Juliette and Margaret go.” His voice was rough, ragged, sounded strange to his ears.

Tears welled in her eyes. Because she hadn’t released his hand, he had only to unfurl his fingers to touch her cheek. Her soft, damp cheek. “God help you, Grace, but I love you. I want to marry you. I need to marry you. I will marry you.”

She shook her head. “You’re delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m deliriously in love with you, and I do know what I’m saying.” Sliding his hand around, he cupped the back of her neck. “I am too weak to sit up, however, so come lay down beside me.”

She gave him some water first before nestling against his uninjured side. “I feared he’d killed you,” she said softly, her hand curled on his chest.

“I feared it as well, and all I could think was that I hadn’t had enough time with you. I want years with you, so many that we’ll lose count.”

“I don’t know if I can promise you that, Lovingdon. We never know how much time we’ll have.”

He knew she was thinking of the malignancy, that it could return, that this time it could take her. The thought terrified him, but he wasn’t going to hide from it, he wasn’t going to deny himself time with her just because of what might happen. “Whatever time you have, Grace, whatever time either of us have, I want to spend it with you.”

He heard a small sob, felt hot tears hit his skin.

“I thought you wanted a man who loves you,” he teased.

Nodding, she lifted herself up on her elbow and skimmed her fingers along his jaw. “I love you. We shall be so happy together. But first we must get you well. I should fetch Dr. Graves so he can examine you.”

“In a bit.” His eyes began to grow heavy and he pulled her back down to him. “For now, just sleep. Sleep with me and never leave me until I am a crotchety old man.”

He thought he heard her promise, but it hardly mattered. He would be grateful for whatever time he had with her. Be it a day, a month, a year. A moment.

He didn’t know how long he slept, but when he awoke, light spilled in through the window. Grace was sleeping against his side. His arm was numb and would no doubt hurt like bloody hell when she left him, but like all hurts, it would subside, and she would soon be back in his arms. Tenderly, with his other hand, he brushed aside the strands of hair that partially hid her face. He was quite looking forward to all the mornings he would awaken to her in his bed.

Her nose twitched, she smiled, and slowly opened her eyes. So like her to be optimistic and smile before she saw what the day held.

“Good morning,” he rasped.

“’Morning.”

“Not exactly how I envisioned our first morning together.”

“You can’t flirt with me just yet, not until Dr. Graves has seen you.” Leaning up, she brushed a quick kiss across his lips, rolled out of bed, and with a tiny squeak came up short. “Father.”

Lovingdon saw him now, standing near the foot of the bed, arms crossed. He didn’t appear at all pleased to see that Lovingdon had survived. Or perhaps he merely looked as though he had grand plans for a painful death for the man who had taken his daughter into his bed without benefit of marriage. Even if nothing except innocence had transpired the night before.

Lovingdon struggled to sit up, fell back against the pillows. He supposed an inch was better than none. “I know you refused to give us your blessing when I asked for it, but I intend to marry your daughter with or without it.”

Grace jerked her head around. “You asked for his blessing?”

He nodded. “The morning after . . . the night that we argued.”

She looked at her father. “And you didn’t give it?”

“I didn’t give any of them my blessing.”

Grace blinked, stared. “Any of them?”

Greystone looked at the ceiling. “Hmm. Yes. I think there were twenty-two, twenty-three, who asked for your hand in marriage.”

“You denied them all?” Grace asked.

The duke looked unabashed. “You wanted love, sweetheart. I knew to a man who truly loved you that it wouldn’t matter whether I gave my blessing.” His gaze came back to bear on Lovingdon. “Seems I was right.” His brow puckered. “Although I didn’t take a man of Vexley’s ilk into consideration.”

“He asked for my hand in marriage?” Grace asked.

“He cornered me at the ball. He seemed to take my response civilly enough. I misjudged him.”

“I think we all did,” Lovingdon said, once again feeling his strength draining.


“I’ll fetch Graves,” Greystone said. He began to walk out.

Grace rushed after him and wound her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you for your blessing.”

“Be happy, sweetheart. Be very happy.”

Grace turned, strode back to the bed, sat on its edge and took Lovingdon’s hand.

He threaded his fingers through hers. “You will be happy.”

She smiled. “I know.”