The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(70)

He wished. He never got seasick. He was landsick. He didn't want to go back. He'd woken up in the middle of the night, stuck down in his small berth, clammy with sweat.

He had to go back. He knew he did. But that didn't mean a very large part of him didn't want to turn coward and flee.

He heard Grace's breath catch, and when he looked at her, she was pointing out, her face alight with excitement.

It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Is that Dublin?" she asked. "Over there?"

He nodded. "The port. The town proper is a bit farther in."

She craned her neck, which would have been amusing had he not been in such a wretched mood. There was no way she could have seen anything from this distance. "I've heard it is a charming city," she said.

"There is much to entertain."

"It's a pity. I don't expect we shall be spending much time there."

"No. The dowager is eager to be on her way."

"Aren't you?" she asked.

At that, he took a breath and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, and he was nervous, and it felt as if he was being delivered to his downfall. "No," he said. "To be honest, I'd be quite happy to stay right here, on this boat, at this railing, for the rest of my life."

Grace turned to him with somber eyes.

"With you," he said softly. "Here at this railing, with you."

He looked back out. The port of Dublin was more than a speck on the horizon now. Soon he would be able to make out buildings and ships. Off to his left he could hear Thomas and Amelia chatting. They were pointing out over the water, too, watching the port as it seemed to grow before their eyes.

Jack swallowed. The knot in his stomach was growing as well. Good God, it was almost funny. Here he was, back in Ireland, forced to face his family, whom he'd failed so many years before. And if that weren't bad enough, he could very well find himself named the Duke of Wyndham, a position for which he was uniquely unqualified.

And then, because no injury should ever be without insult, he had to do it all in the company of the dowager.

He wanted to laugh. It was funny. It had to be funny. If it wasn't funny, then he'd have to bloody well go and cry.

But he couldn't seem to laugh. He looked out at Dublin, looming larger in the distance.

It was too late for laughter.

Several hours later, at the Queen's Arms, Dublin

"It is not too late!"

"Ma'am," Grace said, trying to be as calm and soothing as she could, "it is past seven. We are all tired and hungry, and the roads are dark and unknown to us."

"Not to him," the dowager snapped, jerking her head toward Jack.

"I am tired and hungry," Jack snapped right back, "and thanks to you, I no longer travel the roads by moonlight."

Grace bit her lip. They had been traveling over three days now, and one could almost chart the progress of their journey by the shortness of his temper. Every mile that brought them closer to Ireland had taken a notch out of his patience. He'd grown silent and withdrawn, so wholly unlike the man she knew.

The man she'd fallen in love with.

They had reached the port of Dublin in the late afternoon, but by the time they collected their belongings and made their way into town, it was nearly time for supper. Grace had not eaten much on the sea journey, and now that she was back to standing on surfaces that did not pitch and roll beneath her, she was famished. The last thing she wanted was to press on toward Butlersbridge, the small village in County Cavan where Jack had grown up.

But the dowager was being her argumentative self, so they were standing in the front room of the inn, all six of them, while she attempted to dictate the speed and direction of their journey.

"Don't you wish to have this matter settled, once and for all?" the dowager demanded of Jack.

"Not really," was his insolent response. "Certainly not as much as I want a slice of shepherd's pie and a tankard of ale." Jack turned to the rest of them, and Grace ached at the expression in his eyes. He was haunted. But by what, she could not guess.

What demons awaited him here? Why had he gone so long between visits? He'd told her he had a lovely childhood, that he adored his adoptive family and would not have traded them for the world. Didn't everyone wish for that? Didn't he want to go home? Didn't he understand how lucky he was to have a home to return to?

Grace would have given anything for that.

"Miss Eversleigh," Jack said, with a courteous nod. "Lady Amelia."

The two ladies bobbed their curtsies as he departed.

"I do believe he has the right idea of it," Thomas murmured. "Supper sounds infinitely more appealing than a night on the roads."

The dowager whipped her head toward him and glared.

"Not," he said with an extremely dry look, "that I am attempting to delay the inevitable. Even soon-to-be-dispossessed dukes get hungry."

Lord Crowland laughed aloud at that. "He has you there, Augusta," he said jovially, and wandered off to the taproom.

"I shall take my supper in my room," the dowager announced. Her tone was defiant, as if she expected someone to protest, but of course, no one did. "Miss Eversleigh," she barked, "you may attend to me."