While the Duke Was Sleeping

  He held up both hands. “Don’t let me scare you away. That was not my intention.”

  “I need to go now, my lord.” She tried to move around the chair, giving him a wide berth. He stepped closer. It was going to be hard to bypass him in any direction without being within arm’s reach of him. Given as she was questioning his sanity, it seemed like a good idea to stay out of his range.

  “You were all they talked about. Well, aside of their fears for Marcus, of course. ”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Even Enid had nice things to say about you, and she can be rather taciturn. You gave them something else to focus on besides their fear. They were so thrilled that Marcus finally decided to wed . . . and to such a nice girl.”

  She winced. “And yet you said nothing? As his friend you had to know he was not engaged to anyone.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset them further. And I wanted to meet you first. See this ‘nice’ girl for myself.”

  She dropped her head guiltily. “I’m a fraud.”

  “Yes, you are,” he agreed. “But you’re quite the loveliest person I’ve ever met and you saved his life.” He motioned to the bed with an elegant wave of his hand. “And everything that I overheard you say?” Her face warmed at the reminder. “You’re so sweet you make my teeth ache.”

  Her gaze flew back up to his. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  He nodded his head once decisively. “We shall not utter a word to the family. You will be whom they believe you to be.”

  “I—I cannot do that!”

  “It brings them some measure of happiness and right now they deserve that. I love this family. The dowager is . . . she’s a rare gem.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Generous and accepting to a fault. Autenberry often criticizes her for that, but then he can carry the role of arrogant noble a bit too far. Not his fault, I suppose. The old duke raised him to be that way.” Dropping his hand from his neck, his stare fixed intently on her face. “I’ll not have them hurt. Understood?” For a moment the soft friendliness of his gaze hardened, and she saw a glimpse of an entitled nobleman accustomed to getting his way. “If Marcus—” he caught himself and amended “—when he wakes, this can be sorted out. No one will care then as they’ll be so overjoyed that he is alive and well. If he doesn’t wake . . .” His voice faded. “Well. Then your little subterfuge won’t matter.”

  “He will wake.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I don’t know why, but I believe you. Despite what the physician says. Foolish, perhaps, but I do.”

  “You have to believe it.” Somehow, in her mind, his recovery was linked to this—to the fact that none of them gave up on him.

  “Now.” He clapped his hands lightly and rubbed them briskly. “We’re in accord. No disappointing the dowager or the others with unwanted confessions?”

  It was perplexing to think that the truth could cause more harm than good. “Very well,” she agreed. “When His Grace awakes we shall confess everything.”

  He beamed. “Very good, Miss Fairchurch. You’ll see. This will be for the best.”

  “What of the duke’s brother?” The man was never far from her thoughts. “He doesn’t believe me. He practically said as much to my face.”

  “Mackenzie?” He chuckled lightly. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s one surly scoundrel.”

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  Lord Strickland chuckled even harder at that. “Don’t take it to heart. I’m not sure the man likes anyone. He doesn’t seek the good in people. It’s not in his temperament to do so, and I suppose with his upbringing, or lack thereof, it should not be expected of him.”

  As intrigued as she was at the reference to Struan Mackenzie’s upbringing, she resisted inquiring more about him. She shouldn’t want to know more about him. Her only thought should be for the duke.

  “He’s a wretch.” If her words sounded sulky, she hoped Lord Strickland would not notice. She crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. “Did you know Mr. Mackenzie was fighting with His Grace before the accident? They were brawling in the streets like a pair of ruffians.” She deliberately failed to mention that Autenberry had thrown the first punch.

  Lord Strickland shook his head. “Well, to be fair, Marcus has been obstinate when it comes to his half brother. He hasn’t exactly thrown open his arms in brotherly love and acceptance.”

  She sniffed, not to be dissuaded in her dislike of the man. She would not feel sorry for the wretch. “Have you met Struan Mackenzie? I’m certain he deserves some of Marcus’s aversion. I’ve not met a more unpleasant individual in all my days—”

  “Fret not, Miss Fairchurch. I’ll handle him.”

  She chafed her hands up and down her arms, feeling unaccountably cold and not the least reassured. She somehow doubted the agreeable Lord Strickland would be able to discourage the offensive lout from sneering at her and proclaiming her a liar. She’d rather stick pins in her eyes than endure another confrontation with him.

  If she was to maintain this farce, another encounter with Struan Mackenzie seemed probable.

  But endure it she would.

  Chapter 9

  He couldn’t sleep.

  Struan told himself it was not because he was worried about a brother who didn’t want him, a brother who would just as soon plant his fist in his face than greet him on the streets of London. He told himself it was not because of the words some prickly shopgirl had flung at him, blaming him for Autenberry lying unconscious on his bed.

  It was neither of those reasons. Neither one should matter to him. Neither reason should prompt him to rise and dress. They shouldn’t guide him from his bedchamber in the middle of the night and out of the comfort of his house and across town to Mayfair.

  He’d avoided paying a call throughout the day, but somehow with the fall of night, without the business of day to blind and distract him, he couldn’t stay away.

  Standing in front of Autenberry’s town house, he paused, burrowing his hands into his pockets. It was cold but he was accustomed to that. He’d spent many a winter night sleeping in a Glasgow alleyway after his mother died. He knew cold. And pain. And suffering.

  Why are you even here? Don’t you have anything better to do than go to places where you are not wanted?

  The answer smacked him solidly in the face as a sleepy-eyed groom granted him admittance and led him upstairs—the dowager’s warm reception of him earlier guaranteed his ready admission into the house. His father had never claimed him. Nor had his brother. And yet the Dowager Duchess of Autenberry treated him like the prodigal son returned.

  The groom left him and he stood just inside the opulent bedchamber, gazing across the stretch of space to the still and silent figure in the bed. Apparently no. He did not have anything better to do. That was the only explanation he could give himself as he stood inside his half brother’s bedchamber.

  Miss Fairchild’s accusing eyes flashed in his mind. Damn her. Was she correct? Could he have said or done something differently? Something that wouldn’t have prompted his brother into attacking him on the streets and ultimately ending up in the path of that coach?

  He moved closer, stopping at the foot of the colossal bed. His brother was only a year older, but staring down at his pale and relaxed features, he looked far younger.

  Marcus had everything Struan never had. A roof over his head—roofs. All the food he wanted. Servants. More clothes than he could ever possibly wear. And their father. More precisely, the love of their father.

  He glanced around the elegant chamber before his gaze returned to the sleeping duke. He had the life he’d desperately craved as a boy.

  Struan’s mother had filled his ears with fanciful stories of the life that awaited him when his father came to claim him. It had taken him years to realize that would never happen. Ignorance would have been far sweeter than the truth. His father could have eased their suffering and saved his mother f
rom an early grave, but the bastard hadn’t lifted a finger for either one of them.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t unlearn that knowledge. Or erase the memories of going to bed with an aching belly, his body sore from a beating he’d endured on the streets. The world was full of predators and he’d had to fight his way from becoming their prey.

  He crossed his arms, gazing at the face so similar to his own. Autenberry might never wake. Maybe he had wanted this on some deep level? No. He wasn’t that broken that he wanted his brother dead.

  Her voice whispered through him. You didn’t have to strike him back.

  True, he’d spent his entire life never backing down, never giving up an inch, but would it have been so impossible to simply take the hit and walk away? Could he have not found that strength of will within him to turn his cheek?

  Gazing at his brother who looked pale and vulnerable in the bed, resentment still bubbled beneath the surface like acid. He couldn’t deny that it had felt damn good to crush his knuckles into his brother’s face.

  He moved away from the bed, not particularly liking himself right then. He sank into a chair in the corner in the room, buried deep in shadows where he could watch his half brother.

  Sighing, he dragged a hand over his jaw, waiting, watching, searching for some flicker of movement. Something that signified the bastard wasn’t dead. That she wasn’t right about him, that the way she looked at him, like he was some bit of filth beneath her shoe, wasn’t justified.

  She couldn’t sleep.

  Her thoughts churned. Halfway across Town the duke slumbered in a fairy-tale-like sleep and there was no magical kiss that would wake him. And even if a kiss could wake him it would not be from her—contrary to the fact that his family thought she was the love of his life. She cringed and buried her face in her hands. How on earth had she let Lord Strickland persuade her into continuing this farce?

  Perhaps because you want it to be real.

  It felt good to be wanted, and the duke’s family made her feel wanted—excluding Struan Mackenzie, of course. But she hadn’t had to see him this morning. No, she and Lord Strickland had been joined by the rest of the duke’s family, all of whom had insisted she take breakfast with them before returning to the flower shop. They had been warm and lovely, plying her with sticky buns and kippers and the most delicious chocolate she had ever consumed. It slid like ambrosia down her throat. In addition to the wonderful fare, they had been genuinely interested in her—asking questions about her life that made her feel human again and not simply a machine that functioned day to day, eking out an existence to keep both she and her sister one step out of the gutter.

  Light from the grate cast dancing shadows over the walls and ceiling of their small chamber. The smell of wet leather drifted to her nose. It had rained earlier in the day and she’d been caught out in the deluge on her way home from Barclay’s. Her boots sat near the grate in the hopes that they would dry by morning.

  She rolled onto her side with a soft groan. She couldn’t stop wondering if they were giving the duke enough water and broth. Perhaps she had been too soft with Mrs. Wakefield when she stressed that he needed proper sustenance through his convalescence.

  Foolish, she knew. Loved ones and a houseful of servants surrounded him. He didn’t need her. Even if his family believed they were affianced, the best thing she could do was keep her distance.

  She told herself that for several moments, her laced fingers thrumming over her chest. He was fine. There was nothing she could do. Her presence wouldn’t help him.

  Her fingers thrummed faster.

  Blast!

  She wasn’t going to fall asleep. Giving up, she rose. Flinging back the covers, she left her warm bed where her sister tossed and turned, encroaching onto Poppy’s side of the bed.

  She slipped on her garments, dressing warmly for the bitter night. After checking her boots and finding them still damp, she slipped into her sister’s boots. They were only slightly too large, but they would suffice.

  With one last glimpse at her sister asleep in the bed, her arms flung above her head and lost in all her lovely auburn hair, Poppy departed the room, closing the door gently behind her. Not that her sister was a light sleeper. It took an avalanche to wake her in the mornings.

  The light in Mrs. Gibbons’s downstairs parlor glowed onto the hall floor. She paused outside the cracked double doors, glimpsing the widow inside, sitting before the fire with her knitting.

  “Mrs. Gibbons? I’m going out for a bit,” she said as she wrapped her wool kerchief around her throat. “Bryony is asleep. I doubt she will awake.”

  Mrs. Gibbons slid her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Is anything amiss?” She glanced to the mantel clock. “The hour is late to venture out.”

  “No, nothing amiss. Just something I forgot to do that needs to be done before the morning.” She deliberately let her words imply that it was a work-related task. In no way would she explain what she was really about at this late an hour. She wasn’t certain she even could. She could scarcely explain it to herself. To explain what she was about, she’d have to disclose her deception.

  Mrs. Gibbons pursed her lips disapprovingly as she observed her. Poppy pulled her cloak around her shoulders. It had belonged to her mother. Once the height of fashion, it was trimmed with ermine and lined in velvet. She could almost imagine Mama wearing it before she turned her back on her family and married Papa.

  “Go if you must, but be careful.” Mrs. Gibbons tsked with displeasure.

  Poppy’s lips twitched in amusement. She, of course, did not point out that she did not require Mrs. Gibbons’s permission. Mrs. Gibbons had adopted a maternal role not just with Bryony. It was rather nice. Except when it wasn’t. As in right now when the woman fixed her gimlet stare on Poppy.

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  “All manner of riffraff turn up at night,” she called as Poppy made her way through the small foyer. “Mrs. Huxley down the street said some beggars accosted her last week. Tried to filch the bread right out of her basket. Don’t know what the world is coming to when good God-fearing women can’t walk the streets—”

  “I’ll be cautious,” Poppy called behind her, burrowing into her cloak as she stepped out into the night.

  Her borrowed boots rang out over the air, clicking over the cobbled walk as she walked a steady line, doing her best to ignore the sliding of her heels inside Bryony’s shoes. The streets weren’t completely deserted. A steady flow of carriages passed and she surmised that the theater located a half dozen blocks away had let out for the night.

  It wasn’t a short walk, but she didn’t relish using her precious earnings on the price of a hack. Even at this late hour. Even with boots that didn’t quite fit. Even in the cold.

  For some reason, Struan Mackenzie’s glowering face rose up in her mind. She knew the arrogant man wouldn’t approve and at that thought she reminded herself that his approval didn’t matter. He was a boorish brute, and she had been taking care of herself long before she met him. So what that he escorted her home yesterday. That didn’t make him a gentleman. Nor did it mean that she should care for his good opinion.

  She sniffed against the cold wind and reminded herself that she didn’t mind walking. When she lived at Toadston-on-Mersey, she spent many hours walking the countryside. At least before her father fell ill. It had been one of her favorite pastimes.

  Upon reaching the duke’s residence, she knocked tentatively at the door, hoping she didn’t wake the entire household. It was opened quickly by the footman standing sentry in the foyer.

  She opened her mouth, ready with an explanation as to why she was here so late, but his stern expression lightened the moment he saw her. He apparently remembered her from her previous visits. “Miss Fairchurch. All the family is abed. Mrs. Wakefield, too. Is there anything amiss? Anything I can assist you with?”

  “No, nothing to fret over.” She shifted uneasily on her feet. “It’s only that I cou
ldn’t sleep. Would it be possible for me to sit with the duke for a bit? I won’t disturb anyone.” It still felt odd to suggest such a thing even though no one had questioned her presence on her prior calls. Indeed, it even seemed expected that she call on him.

  The man nodded kindly. “I understand. You must be beside yourself with heartsick.” He clucked sympathetically. Because he believed her to be Autenberry’s fiancée. Because he believed she had a right to be here. “Of course, come in. I’m certain His Grace would like that.” He motioned her inside. She stepped into the foyer and removed her cloak, passing them into his waiting hands.

  “This way.” Turning, he started escorting her.

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I know the way. No need to trouble yourself.”

  “Are you certain? It is no trouble—”

  “Stay at your post,” she assured.

  He inclined his head in a slow nod. “Very well. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  With a parting smile of thanks, she hastened up to the second floor.

  The door was ajar as before. She moved into the room with less hesitation than this morning, more comfortable in her surroundings and in the knowledge that the family was asleep and would not happen upon her here. She would not have to continue the charade for their sake. At least not tonight.

  She stopped at the side of the bed, peering down at him.

  His color looked a little better. He wore a different nightshirt and the sight made her feel slightly better—and silly. Of course he was being well cared for. He didn’t need her looking after him.

  “Hello, again,” she murmured as she sank down in the chair. “Sorry to call on you so late. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Her fingers played in the folds of her skirts for a moment before she lifted an arm and covered his motionless hand with her own. She hissed at the chill of his skin.

  “You look better,” she murmured, chafing his hand under her own, trying to warm the skin.

  Her gaze traveled his face, traveling the well-memorized lines. If she was a decent artist, she would attempt to immortalize him on canvas. She wouldn’t do him justice if she attempted the task with her less than notable talents.