The Unwelcome Homecoming #2
Before Eleanor could countermand the instruction, her normally stoic butler actually smiled. “Yes, Your Grace. Very good, Your Grace. Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, er…”
“Simmons, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Simmons. It’s good to be home.”
When they were alone again, Eleanor leveled her coldest glare at him. “You overstep.”
“Technically impossible, my dear.” His grin was positively wicked.
“A duke cannot overstep in his own home, with his own wife, directing his own servants. The law of coverture is quite clear on a husband’s rights, though I understand your special arrangement with The Widow was designed to circumvent those limitations. ”
“These arrangements can be dissolved,” she threatened, though she knew the consequences would be dire.
The process would be humiliating and public, and likely unsuccessful without the duke’s cooperation.
All the carefully crafted legal documents The Widow had arranged would be worthless if the marriage were dissolved.
Mr. Abram would swoop in like a vulture to claim what remained of her inheritance.
His expression softened slightly, the first genuine emotion she’d seen from him. “Come now, Eleanor. Surely we can reach an agreement that serves us both. One dinner, civilized conversation, a chance to establish some ground rules for this unanticipated cohabitation.”
She studied him warily. Something in his tone suggested more lay beneath his cavalier surface than he revealed. She’d built her independence on her ability to read men’s motivations—and something about the Duke of Westmore didn’t quite align with his roguish performance.
“One dinner,” she conceded reluctantly. “After which we will discuss terms for your prompt departure.”
His smile returned, triumphant. “I look forward to the… negotiation.” He collected his jacket, shrugging it on with masculine elegance. “I’ll retire to refresh myself before dinner. Which, I wonder, is my chamber?”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “The blue guest bedchamber. Second floor, east wing.”
“Not the master’s chambers?” He raised those expressive eyebrows again. “How disappointing.”
“The master’s bedchamber awaits no master,” she replied coolly.
“Another item for our negotiation, then.”
As he strolled toward the door, he paused beside her, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes—evidence that the duke was perhaps not quite as youthful as she’d first thought.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “when I received your proxy marriage proposal, I assumed you were an aging widow desperate for protection. Imagine my surprise.”
He lifted her hand before she could withdraw it, brushing his lips across her knuckles in a gesture that should have been proper but somehow felt scandalously intimate.
“This arrangement,” he murmured against her skin, “may prove far more interesting than either of us anticipated.”
Eleanor snatched her hand away, ignoring the tingling sensation his touch had evoked. “Eight o’clock, Your Grace. Don’t be late.”
His laugh followed him out the door. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping my duchess waiting. Not when there’s so much to explore.”
Left alone, Eleanor sank into her chair, staring at the half-empty decanter of brandy.
She would need to visit the Lyon’s Den again—to demand an explanation from The Widow about why her carefully arranged plan had collapsed so spectacularly.
How could a woman who had built her reputation on finding solutions for ladies in difficult situations have failed to foresee this possibility?
Her proxy duke had returned, upending her carefully ordered life with his green eyes and maddening smile, and she had a sinking feeling that getting rid of him would prove far more difficult than acquiring him had been.
She poured herself a measure of the brandy he’d been drinking. Tonight’s dinner would require fortification—and strategy. By the time the meal was concluded, she would find a way to send His Grace packing back to whatever Far East port he’d crawled from.
No matter how enticing his thighs.
“I trust the blue bedchamber will be to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” Simmons asked as he led Damien up the grand staircase.
“I’m certain it will serve admirably,” Damien replied, already noting the delicate crown moldings and careful attention to detail that marked every inch of the house. Eleanor Sinclair—Westmore now—had excellent taste.
The butler opened a set of polished mahogany doors to reveal a spacious chamber decorated in varying shades of blue and silver. A fire already crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the plush furnishings.
“Your man arrived with your trunks earlier, Your Grace. He’s waiting to assist you.” Simmons gestured toward a lean, weathered man standing at attention near the wardrobe.
“Thank you, Simmons. That will be all.”
When the butler departed, Damien let out a long breath and loosened his cravat completely.
“I see you’ve managed to infiltrate the enemy camp, Your Grace,” his valet remarked dryly.
“Hardly an enemy camp, Graves.” Damien shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to the older man. “Though my duchess seems less than thrilled by my arrival.”
“And was Her Grace everything you expected?” Graves asked as he moved to the wardrobe to select appropriate evening attire.
Damien crossed to the window, gazing out at the carefully manicured gardens below. “No,” he admitted quietly. “She was nothing like I expected.”
Nothing in The Black Widow’s correspondence had prepared him for Eleanor Westmore.
He had, at best, anticipated a plain woman of advancing years, grateful for his title’s protection.
Instead, he’d found a young, strikingly beautiful woman of perhaps eight and twenty with a spine of steel and eyes that flashed like sapphires when provoked.
“Graves, what did you learn about her while I was being received?”
The valet paused in his preparations. “The staff speaks highly of her, Your Grace. Apparently, she’s known for her charitable works—donates to an organization that rescues women and children from brothels.
Runs some sort of hospital in one of the poorer districts.
They say she visits twice weekly without fail. ”
“A philanthropist,” Damien mused. “How lovely.”
“The late Mr. Sinclair was an amicable fellow. He readily engaged his wife in matters of business. Mr. Abram was their solicitor. The housekeeper was particularly venomous about him.”
“The solicitor was the executor?” Damien shook his head. “How foolish of Sinclair.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. According to the cook, who’s been with the household for twenty years, the late Mr. Sinclair never intended for Abram to have such control, but the wording of the will left unfortunate loopholes.”
“Which my convenient title has resolved.” Damien fingered an ornate silver brush set on the dressing table. “Any word of my brother while you made your inquiries?”
Graves’s expression tightened. “Nothing specific, Your Grace. Though there was mention of Lord Croft’s set causing trouble at certain establishments in the less reputable parts of town.”
Damien’s fingers curled around the silver brush, knuckles whitening.
Three years. Three years of following Dominic from one opium den to another, through sanatoriums and relapses, across continents and back again.
Three years of watching his bright, brilliant brother deteriorate into a hollow shell when the laudanum took hold, then struggle back to clarity during the agonizing weeks of withdrawal.
And for what? For Dominic to flee back to London, back to the men who had destroyed him, the moment Damien’s vigilance had faltered.
“Their lack of scruples is hardly surprising. The opium dens near the docks were raided by authorities yesterday morning, reopened by evening.” He rubbed his temple, exhaustion evident in his voice.
“Someone with influence is protecting their operation. But mark my word,” he said quietly.
“Lord Croft will pay for what he’s done. ”
“And what of your new wife, Your Grace? Does she fit into these plans?”
Damien turned from the window, his mouth set in a grim line.
“My brother’s struggles are a private family matter.
While Society may gossip about past events, I prefer to handle Dominic’s recovery with discretion.
Besides, if it becomes known I’m searching for Dominic, we’ll be inundated with false sightings and unwanted advice.
I prefer to operate quietly.” He paused, recalling the determined set of Eleanor’s chin.
“Though I suspect keeping secrets from my duchess may prove challenging.”
“And if she were to discover the truth about Master Dominic?” Graves asked carefully.
“If she’s as clever as she seems, she will understand immediately that the less she’s publicly connected to Dominic’s situation, the better for her charities’ reputations.
Her altruistic work shouldn’t be tainted by association with my brother’s indiscretions.
” He ran a hand through his hair. “Though any scandal attached to the Westmore name becomes hers as well now. Pleading ignorance may put her in a more sympathetic light—a victim of her scandalous husband and his family.”
“A complicated chess match, Your Grace.”
“Indeed. And I cannot afford to lose a single piece on the board, not with Dominic’s life at stake.”
He moved to the washstand, splashing cool water on his face. The journey had been long and the confrontation with Eleanor unexpectedly taxing.
“I’ve selected the midnight blue coat, Your Grace,” Graves said. “With the silver waistcoat. It seems Her Grace appreciates the finer things. You’ll want to make an impression.”
Damien chuckled. “I believe I’ve already made quite an impression, Graves. Though perhaps not the one I’d prefer.”
As his valet helped him dress for dinner, Damien’s thoughts returned to his brother.
After a good night’s sleep, he’d search Dominic’s old favorite watering holes, including the Lyon’s Den, and call on his disreputable friends to determine his whereabouts.
He may even pay Croft a visit if needed, although he’d rather not announce his return yet.
“You’re frowning again, Your Grace,” Graves observed as he presented a selection of cravat pins.
“My brother has placed me in an impossible position, Graves.” Damien selected a simple silver pin with a small sapphire that reminded him of Eleanor’s eyes. “Again.”
“Master Dominic has been unwell for a very long time, Your Grace.”
“And I have exhausted my patience, my fortune, and very nearly my sanity trying to save him.” The words emerged with more bitterness than he’d intended. “Only for him to throw himself back into danger the moment my back is turned.”
“If I may, Your Grace…” Graves hesitated.
“Speak freely.”
“Perhaps Master Dominic doesn’t wish to be saved.”
The simple statement struck Damien in his stomach. He had spent so long fighting for his brother’s recovery that he’d never truly considered the possibility that Dominic might be choosing his destruction.
“No,” he said firmly. “I refuse to accept that. Dominic was targeted by Croft’s set because of our family’s properties and influence.
They deliberately cultivated his addiction to control him, then used that control to systematically steal from our estates.
The missing funds, the forged documents authorizing sales—all of it traces back to Croft’s manipulation of my brother’s weakened state.
They are the architects of his downfall, not Dominic himself.
It’s only a matter of time before I prove it, which should be easier now that I’m here. ”
Graves nodded, though his expression remained doubtful. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Damien checked his appearance in the mirror, satisfied that he looked every inch the returning duke. The midnight blue coat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while the silver waistcoat added a touch of formality appropriate for dining with his duchess.
His duchess. The thought still seemed surreal. Somewhere in this house, Eleanor was also preparing for their dinner, likely plotting how to convince him to leave London. Little did she know how impossible that request would be.
“I have a delicate line to walk, Graves,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “I must maintain my cover as the depraved duke returned to claim his marital rights, while simultaneously investigating Croft’s operations without drawing attention to my true purpose.”
“That should not prove difficult to convince of others given Her Grace’s beauty, Your Grace.”
Damien’s reflection stared back at him, green eyes troubled despite his polished appearance. “Aye; however, Eleanor Westmore is a complication I did not anticipate.” He touched the sapphire pin at his throat. “Beauty I can resist. Intelligence I can respect from a distance. But together…”
“A formidable combination, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Damien turned from the mirror. “I must keep her at arm’s length for I do not need the complication when I must leave England with Dominic should my plans fail.”
“Yet you must also convince the household—and by extension, Society—that your marriage is genuine.”
“A perfect conundrum.” Damien smiled grimly. “Let’s hope dinner provides an opportunity to establish some boundaries that protect us both.”
He checked the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly eight. Time to face his duchess across the dining table.
“Wish me luck, Graves. I suspect I’ll need it.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The valet’s normally impassive face softened slightly. “Though if I may say so, given how magnificent you look tonight, I think Her Grace might be equally in need of fortune’s favor.”
Damien laughed, the first genuine laugh he’d experienced since discovering Dominic had fled Macao for London. “I am comforted by that thought, Graves.”
With a final adjustment to his cravat, Damien Westmore, Duke of Westmore, prepared to rejoin his duchess for what promised to be the most intriguing dinner negotiation of his life.