The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(68)

"This woman," Thomas said, motioning back to Amelia, "has spent her entire life preparing to be the Duchess of Wyndham. I will not permit you to leave her life in shambles."

Around them the room went utterly still.

Except for Amelia, who looked ready to crumble.

"Do you understand me?"

And Jack...Well, he was Jack, and so he simply lifted his brows, and he didn't quite smirk, but he was quite certain that his smile clearly lacked sincerity. He looked Thomas in the eye.

"No."

Thomas said nothing.

"No, I don't understand." Jack shrugged. "Sorry."

Thomas looked at him. And then: "I believe I will kill you."

Lady Amelia let out a shriek and leapt forward, grabbing onto Thomas seconds before he could attack Jack.

"You may steal my life away," Thomas growled, just barely allowing her to subdue him. "You may steal my very name, but by God you will not steal hers."

"She has a name," Jack said. "It's Willoughby. And for the love of God, she's the daughter of an earl.

She'll find someone else."

"If you are the Duke of Wyndham," Thomas said furiously, "you will honor your commitments."

"If I'm the Duke of Wyndham, then you can't tell me what to do."

"Amelia," Thomas said with deadly calm, "release my arm."

If anything, she pulled him back. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Lord Crowland chose that moment to step between them. "Er, gentlemen, this is all hypothetical at this point. Perhaps we should wait until - "

And then Jack saw his escape. "I wouldn't be the seventh duke, anyway," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" Crowland said, as if Jack were some irritant and not the man he was attempting to bludgeon into marrying his daughter.

"I wouldn't." Jack thought furiously, trying to put together all the details of the family history he'd learned in the past few days. He looked at Thomas. "Would I? Because your father was the sixth duke.

Except he wasn't. Would he have been? If I was?"

"What the devil are you talking about?" Crowland demanded.

But Jack saw that Thomas understood his point precisely. And indeed, he said, "Your father died before his own father. If your parents were married, then you would have inherited upon the fifth duke's death, eliminating my father - and myself - from the succession entirely."

"Which makes me number six," Jack said quietly.

"Indeed."

"Then I am not bound to honor the contract," Jack declared. "No court in the land would hold me to it. I doubt they'd do so even if I were the seventh duke."

"It is not to a legal court you must appeal," Thomas said, "but to the court of your own moral responsibility."

"I did not ask for this," Jack said.

"Neither," Thomas said softly, "did I."

Jack said nothing. His voice felt like it was trapped in his chest, pounding and rumbling and squeezing out the air. The room was growing hot, and his cravat felt tight, and in that moment, as his life was flipping and spiraling out of his control, he knew only one thing for certain.

He had to get out.

He looked over for Grace, but she'd moved. She was standing now by Amelia, holding her hand.

He would not give her up. He could not. For the first time in his life he'd found someone who filled all the empty spaces in his heart.

He did not know who he would be, once they went to Ireland and found whatever it was they all thought they were looking for. But whoever he was - duke, highwayman, soldier, rogue - he wanted her by his side.

He loved her.

He loved her.

There were a million reasons he did not deserve her, but he loved her. And he was a selfish bastard, but he was going to marry her. He'd find a way. No matter who he was or what he owned.

Maybe he was engaged to Amelia. He probably wasn't smart enough to understand the legalities of it all - certainly not without the contract in hand and someone to translate the legalspeak for him.

He would marry Grace. He would.

But first he had to go to Ireland.

He couldn't marry Grace until he knew what he was, but more than that - he could not marry her until he'd atoned for his sins.

And that could only be done in Ireland.




Five days later, at sea

This was not the first time Jack had crossed the Irish Sea. It was not even the second or the third. He wondered if the unease would ever leave him, if he would someday be able to look down at the dark, swirling waters below and not think of his father slipping beneath the surface, meeting his death.

Even before he had met the Cavendishes, when his father was just a wispy figment in his mind, he'd disliked this crossing.

And yet here he stood. At the railing. He could not seem to help himself. He could not be on the water and not look out. Out, and then down.

It was a gentle voyage this time, although that did little to comfort him. It was not that he feared for his own safety. It was just that it all felt so morbid, skimming atop his father's grave. He wanted it done. He wanted to be back on land. Even, he supposed, if that land was Ireland.

The last time he'd been home...

Jack pinched his lips together, and then he pinched his eyes shut. The last time he had been home was to bring back Arthur's body.