Never Deceive a Duke Read Online Free PDF Page B

if you think that your old life is not over,” he said, drawing the stopper from the brandy decanter. “I know what it is to be saddled with a duty one does not want. But you have no choice. You are an English gentleman. A state of denial will get you nowhere.”
    “You are a grand one to give advice about denial,” said Gareth churlishly, “when you are drinking too damned much, and letting your life and your skills rot away.”
    “Et tu Brute?” snapped Rothewell over his shoulder. “Perhaps I ought to dress you up in a muslin gown and call you ‘sister.’ I daresay I’d not miss Xanthia in the least.”
    Gareth fell silent. Rothewell refilled both glasses, then gave the bellpull a sharp jerk. Trammel appeared almost instantly. “Tell the staff to prepare my traveling coach,” he ordered. “Mr. Lloyd shall have need of it at daybreak. They are to meet him at his home in Stepney.”
    “Really, Rothewell, this is unnecessary,” said Gareth, springing to his feet.
    But Trammel had vanished. “You cannot very well go to Selsdon Court in a gig,” said Rothewell. “Nor in a canal boat.”
    “Well, I won’t go in a borrowed carriage, by God.”
    Rothewell crossed the room and pressed the drink into Gareth’s hand. “The coach, if I am not much mistaken, is technically a company asset belonging to Neville’s.”
    “By whom I am no longer employed,” snapped Gareth.
    “But of which you are still part owner,” Rothewell answered. “I am sure any number of fine carriages await you at Selsdon Court, old friend. Send mine back once you are settled.”
    “You will let me see no peace, will you?”
    “I have seen none. Why should you?” Then, with mock solemnity, the baron raised his glass. “To His Grace, the Duke of Warneham. Long may he reign.”

Chapter Three
    T he house was still as death, the scent of fresh bread and cabbage hanging thickly in the air. The ropes of the bed groaned as his mother pulled herself up, inch by agonizing inch. “Gabriel, tatellah, come to me.”
    He crawled up the mattress on hands and knees, then curled against her like a puppy. His mother’s fingers were cold as they threaded through his hair. “Gabriel, an English gentleman always does his duty,” she said, her voice weak. “Promise…promise me you will be a good boy—an English gentleman. Like your father. Yes?”
    He nodded, his hair scrubbing against the coverlet. “Mamma, are you going to die?”
    “No, tatellah, only my human form,” she whispered. “A mother’s love never dies. It reaches out, Gabriel, across time and across the grave. A mother’s love can never be broken. Tell me you understand this?”
    He did not, but he nodded anyway. “I will always do my duty, Mamma,” he vowed. “I will be a gentleman. I promise.” His mother sighed, and relaxed again into the blessed oblivion of sleep.
     
    “All I am saying, my lady, is that it does not seem quite fair.” Nellie drew the brush down the length of her mistress’s heavy blond hair. “A woman ought not be put out of her own home—not even a widow.”
    “This is not my home, Nellie,” said the duchess firmly. “Women do not own homes. Men decide where they will live.”
    Nellie grunted disdainfully. “My aunt Margie owns a home,” she said. “And a tavern, too. No man will be putting her out of ’em anytime soon, depend upon it.”
    The duchess looked up into the mirror and smiled faintly. “I rather envy your aunt Margie,” she said. “She has a freedom that women…well, women like me are brought up never to expect.”
    “Noblewomen, you mean,” said Nellie knowingly. “No, my lady, I’ve seen how some folk live. And I’d rather earn my crust with my own sweat any day.”
    “You are very wise, Nellie.”
    The duchess’s gaze dropped to her hands clasped tightly in her lap. They had been together, she and Nellie, for ten years now. Nellie’s competent hands had begun to show her age, and her brow was permanently