His Dutiful Duchess (The Gentleman’s Vow #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Alexander

Three Months Later

A lexander descended the grand staircase of Hayward House, his polished boots echoing on the marble steps. A chorus of clattering dishware and murmured conversation floated up from the breakfast room below. He paused midway down, leaning on the smooth oak banister, unwilling to face the morning just yet.

Eammon’s voice reached his ears—a soft, lilting cadence distinctly Irish, mingling with the firm but kind tones of Miss Murphy, the governess Alexander had hastily engaged upon the boy’s arrival. She was an older woman, sturdy and practical, though her ways sometimes struck Alexander as excessively indulgent. He couldn’t be sure she was truly up to the task of shaping a child who, in his view, lacked proper behavior. At the least the sort of behavior he’d need to display in England’s polite society. His manners were perfectly acceptable for the child of two commoners, and in fact, back in his home town he’d have been considered impeccably behaved. But in his stiff society, Alexander knew the child needed a firmer hand. It would be hard enough for him as a born commoner.

Besides, Eammon was sweet enough, but there was a restlessness about him—a tendency to leave things half-done or in disarray—that grated on Alexander’s sensibilities.

As he made his way down the stairs, he slowed his pace until he caught sight of the pair. Eammon, seated on the edge of his chair, was wielding a butter knife clumsily, smearing lemon curd onto a piece of bread with disastrous results. Bits of crust and crumbs littered his plate, while a smudge of butter adorned his cheek. Miss Murphy bent over him, her neat bun streaked with gray, murmuring instructions in her lilting brogue.

“There now, just a small bit at a time, lad. Slow and steady—aye, that’s it.”

Alexander sighed, his temples already tightening. Three months. It had been three months since Eammon had come to Hayward, and each day tested his patience in ways he had not anticipated. Not because the boy was difficult—Eammon was unfailingly polite and eager to please—but because he was so unnervingly like John and Maebh.

That uncanny resemblance pricked at wounds Alexander had spent years hiding from even himself. John, his best and oldest friend. Maebh, whose laugh had once felt brighter than sunlight. Their untimely deaths had carved a hollow ache in his chest, and now, each time he looked at their orphaned son, it was as though the shadows of his grief loomed closer.

And then there was the more personal discomfort—one Alexander scarcely knew how to name. He had no template for affection, no memory of tender guidance to draw upon. After his own mother’s death, tenderness had left his life entirely. His father had been stern, his upbringing rigid, his childhood a catalogue of expectations rather than embraces. How could he offer Eammon what he had never known himself?

Alexander had tried. At first, when nightmares tormented the boy, he had attempted to comfort him. But the sight of Eammon trembling, his small fists clutching the bedsheets, left Alexander wordless and flustered. What did one say to soothe a child’s fears? He didn’t know. So he let Miss Murphy handle such matters instead. What he could do—and did—was ensure structure. He laid out a curriculum, hired tutors, and stocked the library with books suitable for a boy of Eammon’s age. If he could not offer love, he would at least offer guidance.

A faint cough interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to find Miss Murphy watching him from the doorway, her sharp eyes soft but assessing. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, dipping a quick curtsy.

He nodded brusquely, pulling himself upright. “Miss Murphy,” he replied, his tone clipped. He had hoped to slip out unseen, as he often did, leaving the governess to oversee Eammon’s mornings. Now that the moment was lost, he stepped reluctantly into the breakfast room.

“Good morning, Eammon,” he said, his voice neutral.

Startled, the boy’s hand jerked, and a blob of lemon curd plopped onto the floor. He froze, wide-eyed, as if expecting a rebuke. Alexander exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping the table—a battlefield of crumbs, smudges, and half-done tasks.

“Miss Murphy,” he said tightly, “I trust you will ensure this does not happen again. Please supervise him more closely.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, her tone courteous but cool. She bent to retrieve the fallen curd while Eammon sat stock-still, his blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Alexander turned to the boy. “I shall be at the club this morning. We’ll speak later.” He nodded stiffly and made for the door.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Eammon replied, his voice small.

For a fleeting moment, Alexander hesitated, his hand hovering near the doorframe. He knew he ought to offer something—a word, a gesture. A pat on the shoulder. But his fingers curled into a fist, and he strode away instead.

Outside, the brisk air slapped his cheeks as he climbed into the waiting carriage. He adjusted his gloves, muttering to himself, “I’ll ensure his future. That is enough.”

And yet, as the carriage rolled away, the image of Eammon—alone at the breakfast table, fighting back tears—lingered in his mind, an ache he could neither name nor erase.

Alexander stepped onto the pavement outside White’s, the club door swinging shut behind him. A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward from the cigar held carelessly in his fingers. He fell into stride alongside Lord Bertram Harrington and Lord Gideon Wycliffe, both sharp-dressed scions of old, titled families. In addition to their common background, the two were also his business partners. His venture, Hayward Imports and Exports had been a smashing success in Ireland and thanks to his partnership with Wycliffe and Harrington, it had continued here.

Their low laughter punctuated the hum of carriages and the chatter of passersby.

“Did you see poor Ludlow in the corner?” Harrington drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “Drowning in debt and too proud to admit it. And everyone knows it. Doesn’t he know he’s White’s laughing stock?”

“He is too in his cups to notice,” Lord Wycliffe said with a chuckle. “By Jove, if he weren’t so tragically dull, one might almost feel sorry for the fellow.”

“He’ll be fortunate if he keeps his lands another year,” Harrington replied, grinning. “To squander one’s fortune like this, pitiful.”

Alexander managed a low chuckle, though it rang hollow even to his own ears. He knew Ludlow and he also knew he’d lost his fortune not due to mismanagement but poor luck when his import and export business suffered due to the war in France. “Ludlow’s circumstances are unfortunate. It can’t all be laid at his feet.”

“Ah, ever the saint, Your Grace,” Harrington said with a smirk, using Alexander’s title with deliberate irony. “Careful, or you’ll ruin your reputation and be seen as soft.”

Alexander forced a smile. “It’s simply the truth. Nothing saintly about it.”

The banter continued as they strolled toward Green Park. Yet for all his easy words and practiced grin, Alexander felt the growing weight of discomfort. These men—if they could be called friends—represented a life he had drifted into more by necessity than choice. Returning from Ireland, he had sought companionship among his peers, specifically unmarried gentlemen who would not look down on him for his unwed state. He’d found just that after a mutual friend and introduced him to Harrington, Lord Wycliffe in relation to his business. In them, he’d found not only suitable business partners – though they were rather more cutthroat than he was – but also gentlemen willing to take him into their wide and sometimes rowdy circle of friends.

Still their easy cruelty sat ill with him. At times, he felt like an actor in a play, responding to their wit with equal sharpness to conceal his distaste. And yet, when he thought of his family, the warmth they brought was tinged with its own complexity. Among the Haywards, too, he felt out of place—the sole unmarried sibling, a Duke grappling with his father's legacy while others built families of their own. When the family gathered, he often found himself retreating inward, more observer than participant.

“Leith, you’ve grown scandalously quiet,” Harrington said, interrupting his thoughts.

Before Alexander could respond, Matthew Fitzroy, another member of their circle, appeared. His sister Matilda trailed close behind. Matthew greeted the group with a broad smile. “We’re bound for the park. The air’s stifling in these streets.”

“Indeed,” Matilda added. “And how fortunate I am to have the company of such handsome fellows.”

Lord Wycliffe and Harrington both chuckled. “And we to have you. Pray, will you sing us a song at the park?”

“I am afraid you shall have to wait like the rest to see this songbird sing,” Matilda replied. She was a singer at the Royal Opera and he’d had the pleasure of hearing her sing before – although he knew that at times Lord Wycliffe, Harrington, and even her own brother, would tease her about the poor prospects such a career held.

As if she’d realized he was thinking of her, she turned in his direction and asked, “And how fares your young ward, Your Grace? I’ve not seen him since that first time you brought him out to meet us. Frightened little bird he was.”

“Like a little sparrow thrown from his nest,” Harrington said with a belly laugh.

The others snickered, Lord Wycliffe shaking his head. “The Duke of Leith, playing papa. Who would have imagined? Say, are you a true mother hen?”

“Just wait,” Harrington teased. “Next, he’ll start lecturing us about morality at the club – for the boy’s sake.”

Alexander exhaled, choosing to ignore his friends “Eammon is… adjusting,” he said, though his hesitation betrayed the effort behind the word. “It’s no small thing for a boy to lose both parents. But truthfully, he’s a challenge. He lacks manners and finesse, which is no surprise, given the circumstances of his upbringing.”

Matilda’s expression softened, but Lord Wycliffe looked positively gleeful. “Common birth will do that to a lad. You can’t polish coal into diamonds.”

“Indeed,” Harrington added with a knowing chuckle. “For all your good intentions, perhaps the orphanage would’ve suited him better. Your sister Emma’s the patron of one here, is it not? I daresay the boy would thrive there among his own sort.”

Alexander’s stride slowed as anger tightened his chest. He pivoted to face Harrington, voice cool but clipped. “Eammon is not ‘his own sort,’ whatever you mean by that. He is my ward and my responsibility. The question of his placement isn’t up for debate.”

“Well said,” Matilda interjected swiftly, her tone measured and firm. “A boy in his position requires understanding, not callousness.”

The teasing grew bolder, Harrington’s grin wide. “Ah, but you’d need to find yourself a wife first, Leith. Too fond of temporary amusements, are we not?”

“Perhaps Miss Fitzroy will offer her services?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

“Let us not drag my sister into this,” Matthew Fitzroy said then. As a diamond merchant he might not have been titled, but his family owned an estate which therefore meant the family was elevated into the gentry and therefore acceptable company for the three titled gentlemen. “Although if you are fond of commoners, I do know a few birds of frailty who would make a good match.”

Alexander clenched his jaw. The laughter that followed pricked at old memories he would rather leave buried. He caught Matilda’s fleeting expression—wounded, wary, yet also tinged with some ineffable emotion that stirred his discomfort further. Their dalliance years ago was private, fleeting, and better forgotten, but the reminder carried a sting of its own.

“Enough,” he said quietly, his tone brooking no further jest. “Let’s focus our wit on another matter.”

The laughter petered out, Harrington offering a lazy shrug of concession. Still, Alexander’s thoughts churned as the group ambled into Green Park.

He didn’t like the more mean-spirited jests his friends were fond of but he also didn’t want to speak up and ruin their connection, for when it came to drinking and merriment, the three men were unmatched company. For the rest of the time, he played a character, pushing aside the things he didn’t care for.

Still, more and more, he felt as though he occupied two distinct worlds. Among his friends, he played the devil-may-care peer. Among his family, he was the dutiful brother. Yet in both settings, the roles felt like carefully maintained facades. He often felt himself walking on eggshells around his sisters for fear of reminding him of the past when he’d abandoned them. And in this setting, he did all he could not to be seen as tedious and dull.

Alexander adjusted the tilt of his hat against the afternoon sun, his attention drawn momentarily to the ripple of ladies’ parasols in the distance. As his friends lingered behind him, exchanging lazy witticisms, he caught sight of a familiar figure—Emma, his youngest sister, walking arm in arm with her dear friend Lady Ophelia Stone, the Countess of Wessex. They strolled leisurely, the former animated in conversation, the latter slower, more subdued in step.

“Excuse me,” Alexander murmured, breaking from his companions with a faint inclination of his head.

“You’re not abandoning us for your sister, are you, Leith?” Harrington called after him, his tone derisive. “Or is it Lady Wessex who commands your attention? I hate to remind you she is unavailable, although if what I’ve heard on dit is right, she’d rather free herself of that half-witted husband of hers,” he added, laughing.

The barb hung in the air as Alexander turned to meet Harrington’s amused expression. “An unkind remark,” he said flatly. “Lady Wessex’ affairs are her own. It ill-becomes us to speculate.”

Without waiting for a reply, Alexander continued his path to the ladies, Harrington’s shrug and faint laugh trailing after him.

Upon reaching them, he tipped his hat, his voice carrying polite warmth. “Emma. Lady Wessex. How fortunate I should run into you both here.”

“Alexander,” Emma greeted, her smile broad and teasing as always.

Ophelia, paler than usual in her ivory muslin, managed a gracious inclination of her head. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “I fear the sun is quite oppressive today. Would you forgive me? I believe I shall rest in the shade.”

Emma nodded quickly, squeezing her friend’s arm before Ophelia slipped toward a nearby bench. Once she’d placed herself on a bench beneath an oak tree.

“What brings you to the park?”

“Ophelia and Jonathan are in town for a few days and I wished to spend time with her before she returns to Shropshire,” she said, referencing the vineyard where Lady Wessex spent most of her time. “But I am glad to have found you,” Emma said, her tone shifting to one of quiet purpose. “I called at Hayward this morning. Eammon was in the library, reading quietly. He seemed…” She hesitated. “Sad. Quiet in a way that felt unnatural for a boy of his age.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow, pleased to hear the boy was following his prescribed plan for the day. “He was reading?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “It’s good, I suppose. But the quietness troubles me. He told me you were upset with him this morning.”

“He struggles with table manners,” Alexander admitted. “This morning was particularly trying. He left the breakfast table covered in lemon curd and butter—quite the battle of bread and clumsy fingers.”

“He is five years old, Alexander,” Emma said.

“I know that, and I was not unkind. I did tell Miss Murphy she must take better care of his table manners and he perhaps found that upsetting. I ought not have said it in front of him.” He shook his head. “And then there are the nightmares. I’ve tried… I’ve tried everything I know, but he and I… we simply cannot connect.”

Emma glanced up at her brother, her expression soft but determined. “He needs a mother, Alexander. A young mother who can give him affection, guidance, stability. Miss Murphy is good and kind, but she is old. She cannot be what Eammon requires.”

Alexander stiffened. “Surely you are not suggesting I get married? You know what I think of marriage, Emma.”

Emma sighed. “Not for yourself, perhaps. But for Eammon? Yes. The child needs more than a governess, more than tutors and your stern brand of guardianship.” Her expression grew gentle as she touched his sleeve. “And frankly, you could use a wife. I fear you will never marry otherwise.”

“I do not wish to right now, that is true.”

“Or ever?”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” he groaned. “I have my hands full with the boy.”

“Alexander, you give him books and rules, but where is the joy? The play? A boy cannot live on discipline alone.”

“I do not want to marry,” Alexander said firmly. “It is not a thing I desire, nor is it something I need.” He’d never spoken these words out loud but he knew he had to put a stop to her meddling.

Still, Emma refused to be stopped.

“Then at least open your heart to the possibility of having a woman in your life for him,” Emma urged. “You may not feel the need, but Eammon does. In the meantime, show him you care beyond his studies. Take him to the park, teach him something that isn’t in a book. Show him you are more than the man who stands at the breakfast table giving orders.”

Her words struck a chord Alexander could not entirely dismiss. He remained silent as they walked, the light chatter of nearby park-goers filling the quiet between them.

As they parted, Alexander offered his sister a faint smile, though his thoughts churned. Passing a group of young girls, his steps slowed. They were playing a game of ninepins on the lawn, the wooden balls clattering against the pins with satisfying knocks. A vivid streak of red caught his eye—a young woman with fiery hair knelt beside one of the girls, demonstrating how to hold the ball properly. Her voice carried a cheerful lilt as she encouraged the child to try again.

For a moment, Alexander stood transfixed. It was as if the woman radiated life itself—dynamic, nurturing, wholly unlike the impersonal order by which he governed Eammon. He turned sharply away, the familiar weight of resignation settling over him.

That was what Eammon needed: a mother full of life and warmth, someone capable of filling the void of his loss. And it was the one thing Alexander could never give.