My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(68)

Jack was dumbfounded. It was true he had promised his father that he would look out for Lucinda, but . . . marry her? No, he most certainly had not promised that. He glanced at his mother, hoping to see some trace of hesitation, but she was wholly serious. Good God. Did she really think he had engaged himself to a child, seven years ago . . . ?

He leaned back in his chair, suddenly filled with suspicion. “Mother, I never vowed to marry her. She was a child when Father died.”

“And he begged you to look after her, the daughter of his dearest friend.”

“Right. ‘Look after her’—-that’s what he asked, and that’s what I promised. And I have.”

The duchess waved one hand. “A few bills paid! That’s not what your father meant, and you know it.”

It had been far more than that. Jack knew Percy had been acting virtually as Lady Stowe’s man of business for the last seven years, letting her houses, hiring her servants, arranging for everything a household could need in London. Knowing Lady Stowe, he’d probably paid a great many bills of hers, as well. Jack was sure the new Lord Stowe, younger brother of the late earl, appreciated that very much, as his sister--in--law was not known to be a thrifty woman.

But Jack had been glad to do it. It was the last thing his father had ever asked of him, and he would have walked through fire to keep his promise. He remembered the day his father and Stowe, friends since Eton, had set out on the duke’s yacht, Circe. There was a brisk wind, a few raindrops now and then from the gray sky above, but nothing ominous in the air. A good day for sailing, the duke had declared. Sailing was his passion, and the river near Kirkwood was wide and smooth.

Stowe hadn’t wanted to go. Lady Stowe was unwell, expecting a child, and she wanted Stowe to attend her. He still didn’t have an heir, only a daughter, Lucinda. She was a quiet, bookish girl, tall and gangly at eleven, her wiry red hair always falling over her face, at least in Jack’s memory. He had been home only because his favorite horse had developed a foot infection and the grooms at Kirkwood were the best in England. And by that unfortunate stroke of luck for his horse, Jack was there when his father and Stowe climbed aboard the Circe with a pair of servants and set sail.

The storm hit suddenly, blowing up the river in a matter of hours. It passed just as quickly, but when the sun came out again, the Circe limped back to shore, her main sail ripped and trailing in the water. A swell had almost capsized the boat, and Stowe was swept overboard. In horror, the duke had dived in after his friend, to no avail. The servants and the duchess had to drag the duke to his bed. By the next day he had a raging fever, and Lord Stowe’s body washed ashore not far from the house.

It took four days for the duke to succumb to the fever. The doctors came and bled him several times before saying there was nothing else they could do. Privately Jack thought Lady Stowe’s screams of grief, and the news that she had lost her unborn child, had made his father want to die. I killed him, the duke repeated over and over in delirium. I killed Stowe. The night before he died, he’d grasped Jack’s hand and made him swear he would look out for Lady Stowe and her daughter. Unnerved and frightened by his father’s weakening health, Jack swore it.

But that promise had not been to marry Lucinda. He narrowed his eyes at his mother, guessing what she was up to. “If he had asked for my promise to marry Lucinda—-who was, as noted, merely eleven years old at the time—-I would have refused, not only for my sake but for Lucinda’s. She deserves to have some say in her husband. You and Lady Stowe have decided I ought to marry her, haven’t you?”

“It would be for your own good,” she replied, unrepentant. “You’ve gone completely mad lately. Your father would be appalled if he heard half the things you’ve done in the last month. Trust me in this—-marry a proper young lady, one who’s grown up preparing to be your duchess, and it will restore you to your right self.”

“My right self,” he echoed in disgust.

“Precisely.” She nodded once. “You are a duke, a Lindeville, and must live like one, with a respectable duchess. It’s time you saw to your duty to have an heir.”

Jack barely heard that last shot about duty. His mind had belatedly stuck on one thing his mother said: Lucinda had grown up believing he would marry her. Christ. Was that true? It would put him in a terrible spot if so. Even though he’d never mentioned marriage to her, even though she’d never hinted she expected him to, if she believed they were informally engaged, and had been for years, what could he do? He had taken care of her and her mother as if they were family. If everyone in town believed he and Lucinda were betrothed . . . if his own mother and Lady Stowe had been telling people there would be a marriage . . . everyone would believe it.

Even worse, Lucinda might believe it. She had made her debut this Season, the only child of the late earl with a handsome dowry. All of London would expect her to make a splendid match this year.

And Lucinda herself . . . They’d always got on well. If Lucinda expected to marry him, she’d never said a word, not even in jest. But perhaps she’d not thought about it. She was a pretty girl, and an eligible one. Had she really been preparing to be his duchess since she was eleven? Had she turned down offers of marriage because she expected one from him? Jack rubbed his suddenly damp palms on his knees. Bloody hell.

It wasn’t merely that he didn’t trust his mother not to manipulate things to suit her. It wasn’t even that he didn’t wish to marry Lucinda, who was more of a younger sister to him than a desirable woman. It was that he’d damn near decided he wanted to marry Sophie, her secrets and mysteries be damned. He wanted her. He wanted to be with her, all the time. He was falling in love with her.