Chapter 8
Wesley
Wesley's mother was waiting for him in his study when he finally returned home.
He hadn't gone home after leaving Thea in the garden.
He'd walked for an hour, maybe two, through streets he didn't bother to track until the fury burned down to something worse—the agony of a man who'd just destroyed the only thing he wanted.
By the time he climbed the steps to his townhouse, the afternoon had gone gray and his knuckles ached from clenching his fists.
Simmons met him in the foyer with that look. The one that meant his mother had arrived and taken the house in hand.
“Her Grace is in your study, Your Grace. She has been here for some time.”
Of course she had. The wedding planning had come to an abrupt end when Wesley walked out of the Hasting gardens, and his mother would have questions. And Lord knows how Thea explained his departure.
He found her seated in the chair nearest the fire, her posture rigid, a cup of tea untouched on the side table. She turned when he entered, and her gaze swept over him.
“You left without a word.” Her voice carried the particular frost she reserved for behavior that didn’t meet her expectations. “Lady Hasting was beside herself. I had to make your excuses, which I should not have to do.”
“I needed air.”
“Oh really?” She rose. “What happened, Wesley? What was so important that you would forget all of your good manners?”
Wesley moved past her to the sideboard and poured a brandy. He drank half of it before answering. “Thea and I had a disagreement.”
“About what?”
He stared at the amber liquid in his glass. He couldn't tell her the truth. Not the full truth, anyway. His mother would suffer from apoplexy.
“She's been reckless.” He kept his voice controlled. “She's been engaging in behavior that is . . . inappropriate for a future duchess. And that’s all I’m going to say.”
His mother's expression shifted. If he thought she might have held any concern for Thea’s well-being, he’d be disappointed. She showed pure satisfaction, and he fisted his hands at his side.
“What sort of behavior?”
“It doesn't matter what sort.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. “What matters is that I have addressed it.”
“I see.” His mother settled back into her chair with the air of a woman whose suspicions had been confirmed.
“I can't say I'm surprised, Wesley. I've held my tongue because you seemed so set on this match, but now this. That girl has always been headstrong. Her mother has never been able to manage her.”
“Mother—” It was one thing for him to have thoughts on the matter, but quite another for his mother to disparage the woman he loved. He couldn’t deny that he loved her.
“I don't say it to be unkind. The girl has her charms. But a duchess needs discipline. She needs to understand that her conduct reflects on the whole of society.” His mother folded her hands in her lap.
“Lady Caroline would never put you in this position. She understands what is expected. She was raised to understand it.”
Wesley said nothing. He stood at the sideboard with his back to his mother and listened to her describe the kind of wife he should want—quiet, compliant, one who knew her place and never tested the boundaries of it.
“Theodora has always been too independent for her own good,” his mother continued.
“Even as a girl, she was wild. Do you remember that house party at the Pembrokes' when she was—oh, thirteen or fourteen? She bullied her way into the card game with you and the other boys. Her dear mother was mortified. I remember thinking then that the girl would be trouble.”
Wesley's hand stilled on his glass. He remembered. Not the way his mother did. He had been around sixteen then. She had planted herself in a chair at the card table with the determination she brought to every aspect of life. The other boys had mocked her. But Wesley dealt her in.
She'd won. Not every hand, but enough. And when it was over, she'd grinned at him with that same satisfied look he'd seen a hundred times since. He rubbed his hand down his face. He had been a fool to not recognize it on Kit.
“A girl like that needs a firm hand,” his mother said. “Not cruelty, mind you. But clear expectations. A duchess who runs wild will bring the whole family to ruin. Your father always said—”
“I need you to stop.” His voice came out quieter than he intended.
“Wesley, I am trying to help you see—”
“I know what you're trying to do.” He turned to face her. “And I have heard enough at present.”
His mother's mouth opened, then closed. She studied him for a long moment, and whatever she saw in his expression was enough to make her rise and collect her things without further argument. She paused at the door.
“Think about what I've said. What you do next will have consequences for us all, Wesley.”
He didn't answer. She left, and the study was quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the blood pounding in his temples.
He finished his brandy and poured another, but didn't drink it. He just stood there, holding the glass, hearing his mother's voice layered over the things he’d said to Thea.
He'd told Thea that she was selfish. His mother had called her wild. The words were different, but they meant the same thing—that Thea was too much of what others believed she shouldn’t be.
Too independent, too bold, too unwilling to fold herself into the shape someone else had drawn for her.
His mother meant it as a flaw. So had Wesley, when he was standing in that garden.
But it was the reason he'd been in love with her for as long as he could remember. He set down the glass and left the house, needing more time to think.
The Fox was quiet for the hour. A handful of men occupied the far tables, deep in their own games. Parker glanced up from behind the bar when Wesley entered, and if the man had an opinion about the duke walking in alone, he kept it concealed behind that weathered face.
The corner seat—her seat—was empty. The whole table was empty. Wesley sat down across from where she would have been and signaled for whiskey.
The drink arrived. He stared at the vacant chair.
He'd been coming here for weeks, and until three days ago, he hadn't understood why.
Escaping to the gaming hell had given him the same thing she wanted for herself—a place to exist without the weight of a title.
To be who she wanted to be. Yet when he'd found out, his first instinct had been to forbid it.
The whiskey burned going down and did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.
“There you are.” Louis dropped into the chair on Wesley's left. Max took the one on his right. They'd been looking for him—he could tell from the way Louis scanned his face, assessing the damage. “What did your mother do now?”
“How did you—”
“Because we went to call on you. Simmons told us where you were and that your mother had also just been there.” Louis signaled for two more glasses.
Wesley turned his glass on the table. “She thinks Thea is unsuitable and wants me to reconsider Lady Caroline.”
“That's not new. Thea is way more entertaining, and your mother hates anything that resembles joy.” Louis poured the whiskeys, and then paused when he watched Wesley’s face. “Did something happen?”
Wesley didn't answer right away. He stared at the empty chair across the table. Kit's chair. Thea's chair.
“If I tell you this, it stays between us. Not a word to anyone. I mean it.”
Louis set down his glass. Even Max straightened in his chair. They both nodded their agreement
“Kit is Thea.”
The silence lasted three full seconds. Louis looked at the empty chair, then back at Wesley, then at the chair again.
“Kit.” Louis's voice was flat. “That very Kit?” He stopped. His mouth twitched, and then he started laughing. Not a polite laugh—a full, helpless bark of laughter that drew looks from the far tables.
“It's not funny.”
“It's the funniest damn thing I've ever heard.” Louis pressed his fist to his mouth, trying to compose himself and failing. “She's been sitting right there, beating you at cards, and you had no idea. Christ, Wes. She’s brilliant. She fooled all of us.”
Max hadn't laughed. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, and nothing but admiration written in his features. “How long has she been coming here?”
“Over a year, from what I understand.”
“So what heavy-handed thing did you do when you found out?” Louis had stopped laughing, his expression sharpening. He knew Wesley well enough to read the guilt underneath the anger.
Wesley couldn't look at either of them. “I told her to stop. I told her Kit was done, and that she was going to be my duchess and I wouldn't allow it.”
The silence at the table was worse than Louis's laughter.
“That can’t have gone over well.” Louis's voice was mocking. “Even your little Wayward Dukes friends won’t be able to dig your foot out your mouth with that one.”
“I was angry.” Wesley admitted, spinning his Wayward Dukes signet ring on his finger. There was nothing the alliance could do to get him out of this one. “But I’m not wrong either. It’s dangerous for her to come here. What if she were found out?”
Max leaned forward. “That’s a real concern. But need I remind you that you are a bloody duke?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“God, you listen to your mother too much. It has everything to do with it, Wes.” Max tapped his fingers on his glass.
“If someone found out, you could make the talk disappear. You have the title, the connections, and enough influence to silence half the ton if you wanted to. If you love her enough.”
“Of course I love her. Don’t ever suggest I don’t love her.” Wesley slammed his fists on the table, drawing more attention to them.
“Then get over yourself.” Louis cut him off. “And bring her back here so I can play her in another hand. I especially want to beat her now.”
Wesley's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come because they were right.
“Get your mother’s voice out of your head.” Max downed the rest of his drink. “I understand wanting to protect Thea and your future. But won’t it make marriage more entertaining if you can enjoy reckless antics together from time to time?”
Wesley couldn’t deny that just thinking about sneaking around with Thea made his cock hard, which was not ideal surrounded by tables of men. “I suppose.”
“Just admit it.” Max laughed and motioned for the bottle to refill his glass. “You have been uptight and miserable since you took the title. It’s high time you remember that life is meant to be lived.”
Thea had said something similar. He wasn’t certain that she wasn’t putting herself and their futures in danger, but what he did know was that living a life without Thea wasn’t an option.
Wesley rose from his chair. “I must go.”
“Good man,” Louis said, holding up his glass and then clinking it to Max’s.
He hurried out of the Fox, but he didn't go home. His feet carried him toward the Hasting residence, not with a plan, not with the right words—just the pull of his need for the woman he loved.
The street was dark when he arrived, the house quiet. Most of the windows were black. He stood on the pavement across the road and stared up at her window. He was about to climb the lattice, when a figure slipped out the servants' entrance at the side of the house.
Wesley pressed himself against the iron railing behind him. The figure, dressed like a man and small in stature, moved through the garden and out the gate. Thea. She turned up the street without looking back.
His first instinct was to chase after her. To grab her arm and demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing, sneaking out alone after everything that had happened between them.
He didn't. He'd tried demands already. He knew where that had led.
Instead, he followed.
She moved through the streets with a sureness that told him she'd done this countless times. She knew this route and she walked it without fear. Wesley had to lengthen his stride to keep her in sight, while staying far enough behind that she wouldn't hear his footsteps.
But she didn't go to the Fox. He'd expected her to turn east toward the gaming hell, but instead she kept south, moving into a part of London that was respectable but modest—the kind of neighborhood where second sons rented rooms and merchants' widows kept small households.
Not dangerous, but not the sort of place a lady of the ton had any business visiting at this hour.
Thea stopped before a narrow townhome on a quiet street. A lamp burned in the ground-floor window. She knocked—two quick raps and a pause, then a third—and the door opened. Warm light spilled out, and a voice said something Wesley couldn't hear. He couldn’t even make out if it was male or female.
Then Thea stepped inside, and the door closed behind her.
Wesley stood in the dark across the street. He didn’t know what she was playing at. What on earth could possibly have her in this part of town entering a strange house. His mind raced with all of the possibilities, and he didn’t like any of them.
He kept watching for another ten minutes, and then he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Unable to stop himself or think better of it, he approached the door.
He pushed it open and stepped into a narrow front hall lit by a sconce.
The house was warm and clean, spare in its furnishings but well-kept.
Voices came from deeper inside—women's voices, and beneath them, the sound of a child fussing.
“Hello?” he called out.
A woman appeared from a doorway to his left. The moment she saw him her expression went from surprise to alarm. She stepped in front of the doorway, and behind her, he could see a woman with a bruised and beaten face. There were two children sitting at a table nearby. Something was wrong here.
“Who are you?” Her voice was hard. “How did you get in?”
The protectiveness in her posture made him take a couple steps back. Whatever he might have thought Thea had gotten herself into, this wasn’t it.
“I'm not here to cause harm.” Other than to whomever had abused the woman. He might like to give that person a good thrashing. He raised both hands and took another step back for good measure. “I followed someone here. A woman. She came in just a moment ago.”
The dark-haired woman didn't move. Her gaze stayed fixed on him.
“Betsy.” Thea's voice came from behind her. “It's all right. I know him.”